


Turncoat

by Sefafell



Category: SS-GB (TV), SS-GB - Len Deighton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-11-12 20:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 91,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11169147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sefafell/pseuds/Sefafell
Summary: Archer hates the Nazis’ ideology and the brutality of the SS, so what would need to change to make him even consider accepting Huth’s job offer? This fic is about how events could have played out differently and led to Archer ending up in Berlin, and what life might be like there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fits in with both book and TV series, although contains setting and plot elements from both. Chapter 1 is set partway through episode 4.
> 
> Archer is a principled character, and it seems to me that his life in London would have to get pretty unbearable for him to consider joining the SS, so this fic may become rather bleak before we even get to Berlin… sorry.

November 1941

Douglas never could forgive himself for failing to send his son away as he had intended. If he had only done that, then none of the rest of it need have happened – they would have had no hold over him.

He had planned it precisely: the forged passes, the journey out of the city. Harry had been in touch with his cousin in the unoccupied zone; it was all prepared. But when the crucial moment came, when action was needed, Douglas could not force himself to do it, could not even suggest it to Mrs Sheenan and let her decide if she would take the boys or not. He wanted his son with him. Just the idea of setting him out on the long road to Cumbria made Douglas think of checkpoints, of discrepancies in the IDs noticed by a sharp-eyed corporal, and the guards muttering amongst themselves in German. In his imagination, a barked order rang out and the soldiers, already made reckless by martial law, acted hastily.

A hail of bullets shattering the windscreen, and his son gone forever, just like his wife, just because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And Douglas would have been responsible for putting him there.

He could not do it.

And then Harry was taken into custody, and with that the lines of communication to the unoccupied zone were cut. Besides, there could be no forging of IDs after Harry’s arrest, with the department under scrutiny. It was too late.

So, in the fading light of the mid-afternoon, Douglas Archer sat at his desk, sick with worry. Most of his thoughts were with his son, back at the house with Bob and Mrs Sheenan, under strict instructions not to go out until the madness had died down. Douglas knew that they would do as he had told them, but it did not stop him from imagining the knock at the door, the blurred silhouettes of the military police outside, just glimpsed through the glass, like something underwater. If that happened, then Mrs Sheenan and the boys would be packed off to exactly the sort of purgatory that he had found Harry and Sylvia in earlier today. And would he be lucky enough to find them as well, before they were processed and sent elsewhere?

Douglas thought of Barbara too. They had arranged to meet tonight, but even those few hours seemed an impossibly long way away. And some of his thoughts were on the small metal cylinder in his pocket, the case holding the film that he had picked up earlier that day, a hasty exchange made in a back street. He had scarcely looked at it yet. Perhaps he would this evening – if he could only be sure who could be trusted to see it.

The phone rang, and the voice at the other end asked if he would not mind going up to Standartenführer Huth’s office. In his distracted state, Douglas went almost without trepidation. He could not have been more misguided.

Somebody had tidied up – of the whiskey bottles and the overflowing ashtray there was no sign. Huth had tidied himself up too. He was sitting behind his desk, reading some report or other, looking no different from the day that Douglas had met him, except perhaps for a slight redness to his eyes. He looked up, and indicated that Douglas should sit.

‘And did you find Sergeant Woods?’

‘Yes.’ Douglas did not trust himself to say more, and certainly did not intend to ask for help.

Huth raised his eyebrows. ‘And?’

‘I’ll sort something out.’

Huth smiled, whether in mockery or not it was hard to judge. ‘I’ve been reading over your notes from Spode’s interrogation again.’

‘Really, sir?’

‘Yes, I have.’ Huth leaned forward on the desk, slow and deliberate. ‘And I suggest, Superintendent Archer, that you might be holding something that once belonged to Spode. What would you say to that?’

Douglas would never find out how he knew about the film, or whether he had simply guessed. Perhaps Captain Hesse had said something unguarded in a meeting, mentioned some detail of Spode’s last moments, the way that he had stared at the secret compartment that held the film. A spy of Huth’s could have reported it back. Or perhaps Huth had sent someone to follow Douglas to his rendezvous earlier that day and they had seen the exchange take place.

‘It’s very simple, Archer.’ Huth leaned back in his seat. ‘Either you can give me what you’re holding, or tell me where to find it, and then tell me everything else you know too, or we can continue this conversation downstairs.’

And they waited. Idly, Huth lit a cigarette and sat looking at Douglas, a smile playing around his lips. There was no need for him to elaborate or threaten further. He knew that he had won. Here they were, sitting in the middle of all the dead ends and failed attempts: the ashes pieced together from the grate, the astrological charts developed to pique Himmler’s interest. Huth was not going to let this be another dead end. He would have Douglas searched and take the film. Douglas accepted that with a clear head.

But as for the rest of it, how long would he hold out once they took him down to the basement? If he could only stay silent until this evening, when he missed the meeting they had agreed and Barbara realised that there was something wrong, then there might still be a chance. They might still be able to realise their plans. Or at least, if he did not mention names, then some of them could save themselves from arrest.

He had been prepared for this, or thought that he had. He had assumed that he would be able to withstand torture. Why, though, had it never occurred to him that Huth might be the one to order it, would be the one standing in the shadows and asking the questions while his men carried out the physical part of the interrogation? And why did Douglas now picture himself cracking, confessing, not bearing it bravely as he had thought he would?

For now, at least, Huth had shown uncharacteristic patience. It could not be long before he grew bored and called Hausser in.

‘You have a son,’ said Huth suddenly. ‘Think of him.’ He toyed with a pencil on his desk, lining it up at the edge of the report that he had placed there. ‘Because George Mayhew certainly won’t.’ He got to his feet with speed enough to startle Douglas, and went to look out of the window.

Douglas knew that he was being offered his final chance. He did think of Douggie, cowering at home, if indeed he was still there; and in his agitation he felt blindingly, murderously furious at Mayhew, and at Huth too for acknowledging what Mayhew never had. He had a son, motherless; a son who would be left with no-one if anything happened to Douglas. He should not have been dragged into any of this. Had Mayhew ever given a thought to Douggie’s fate, if Douglas were to be found out and executed for his part in some resistance plot? No, he probably viewed the boy’s life as regrettable, but necessary, collateral. He would not care if he were orphaned this very night.

‘And Harry…’ said Douglas, towards Huth’s back. His throat was terribly dry, as if he had been silent for centuries, all compressed into the few minutes that Huth had given him to think.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Huth’s reply was dismissive, thrown over his shoulder.

‘Are you saying you’re not able to get him released?’ It was the last bit of defiance that Douglas would ever fling at Huth, as his superior here in this office. He knew that it would irk him, the suggestion that he did not have the authority to secure Harry’s freedom.

Huth turned, staring at him in amusement. He shrugged. ‘Very well. I will arrange it. He will be safe. And you. And the boy.’

He sat back down at his desk. In his cold eyes was a look that Douglas had learned to recognise well. His patience had run out.

Douglas reached into his jacket.


	2. Chapter 2

February 1942

From the direction of Whitehall came a volley of shots. Planned, wondered Douglas, looking towards the office window, or sporadic – a prisoner trying to escape, perhaps? He listened, but the noise did not recur. Planned, then, probably coming from the army barracks. The gunfire had become a familiar sound at Scotland Yard, although after three months of martial law it was becoming less frequent.

Back in November, Mayhew had wanted to be tried as a member of the armed forces, or so it was rumoured – thrown onto the dubious mercy of the German Army rather than left to the SD. In that case, he would have gone before the firing squad when he was found guilty, and perhaps would have considered it a suitably honourable death. But his attempts to secure for himself a special status had failed: he had been hanged with the others. 

At least, as far as Douglas was ever allowed to find out, the conspirators did not suffer for too long in the basement of the Scotland Yard buildings. Their good fortune was probably less out of compunction on Huth’s part, and more to stop tongues over-loosened by beatings – and worse – revealing anything that might implicate him in the plot to free the King. Douglas never saw for himself how badly they had been treated while in custody, or whether Mayhew had shown any bravery over and above his civilian comrades as he met his demise. Huth did not make him attend the executions.

Huth had been present himself, though. Douglas could never look at him after that without imagining him standing there, glancing occasionally at his watch, quietly yawning his way through the men’s deaths as he did through all such tedious necessities that his job occasionally threw into his path.

Douglas did not even remember the last time he saw the Standartenführer. It must have been some incidental exchange of words in a corridor or the building’s lobby. With the way that things had ended, Huth knew better than to call Douglas into his office and thank him for his work, and in the end he left London as abruptly as he had arrived. It must have been difficult for a man so rigidly obsessed with moving forward to force himself to step back, but what choice did he have? He could not bring any charge against German Army intelligence for colluding with Mayhew – that was a struggle on a far greater scale – and the Army had closed ranks around Bringle Sands following the declaration of martial law. Far better to retreat to Berlin with Spode’s calculations, devise some new stratagem, and perhaps even allow himself time to grieve the loss of Professor Springer.

Huth’s departure had brought a close to that miserable flurry of events in the last weeks of 1941. Now, approaching the end of what had surely been the longest winter of Douglas Archer’s life, they seemed to belong to another time, preserved in his memory as a series of vignettes that he was sure he would relive every Advent.

And yet, life went on. There were still murders under martial law and, perhaps even more importantly, there were General Kellerman’s weekly briefings, the next one of which was only two minutes away.

The General, as usual these days, was in a buoyant mood. Not long after Huth had left he too had repaired back to Germany, in his case for a prolonged Christmas holiday. The festive cheer that he had brought with him on his return showed no sign of abating, and seemed destined to last until the spring.

‘Superintendent Archer!’ he said as Douglas entered, and actually rose from his desk to show him to a chair. He must have noticed that the Superintendent seemed listless, for he leaned closer, subduing his bonhomie. ‘And what are you investigating at the moment?’ he asked him, as though to encourage a shy child.

‘A drowning, at Camden Lock,’ said Douglas. ‘A brawl outside a pub, in the East End – two men dead.’ He carried on, listing the small number of corpses that were currently occupying him and Harry. None were very interesting but, with the Spode murder still gnawing at him, Douglas was content to be free of mysterious deaths to investigate.

Kellerman was tutting placidly. ‘Not much to challenge Scotland Yard’s finest detective.’

‘Well, with any luck, something good will come along,’ said Douglas, chancing a sarcastic jibe, and not much caring if Kellerman noticed his tone.

The General chuckled at Douglas’s joke, but a careful observer might have noted that he had to steel himself to do so, and seen in his eyes a watchfulness that had not been there three months ago. He did not know how much the Superintendent had read of Huth’s confidential files. What was more, he was now aware of Huth’s propensity for collecting spies and leaving them scattered in various useful locations. He could only ever view Douglas Archer with suspicion now.

‘And you, yourself, are quite all right?’ he enquired.

Douglas forced himself to look blank. It had never worked with Huth, but Kellerman might be fooled. ‘Quite all right, thank you,’ he said. What else was he going to say? That it was all Kellerman’s fault?

‘Absolutely disgraceful that these Resistance members should target you,’ said Kellerman. ‘A policeman, doing his job – and an excellent job at that! But they will get bored, and move onto something else.’ He chuckled again, more warmly this time. ‘First this ludicrous plot to free the King, and now they are using you as a scapegoat.’

When it appeared that Huth, within a few weeks of arriving in London, had uncovered a Resistance plot involving senior figures in the civil service, Kellerman had been unable to avoid a blow to his prestige. But if there was one thing that he had mastered, it was making the best of a bad situation. He was quick to reveal that his own pet sleuth, the famed Archer of the Yard, had assisted Standartenführer Dr Huth in solving the mysterious Spode murder.

Huth had the luxury of retreating back into the shadows – the proper place for all SD men – no doubt to complain bitterly to Himmler about Kellerman’s conduct in revealing details of the investigation. Douglas, however, was thrust into the spotlight; and George Mayhew having confessed to the murder under duress left the unfortunate impression that the celebrated detective had moved onto helping the SD in their political duties. Thus, the Resistance had been galvanised into attempting another high-profile attack to build on the success of the Highgate bombing. The assault on Douglas at Leicester Square back in November was now only the first of several.

‘You don’t go about unarmed any more, of course?’ said Kellerman.

‘No, not anymore.’ Douglas had never expected that he would need to carry a gun with him everywhere he went.

‘Good man.’ Kellerman favoured him with an avuncular pat on the shoulder, and Douglas strove not to recoil. Then the General got up, straightening his jacket and smiling slightly; and Douglas recognised his polite dismissal.

 

Harry Woods was, at last, behind his desk when Douglas returned to the office. It was past eleven thirty, and it was the first that Douglas had seen of him all morning.

Just as he did every day, Douglas convinced himself that he was going to tell Harry that he was worried about him, then vacillated, gave up, and despised himself for his weakness. Once again, it must all go unsaid, just because he could not face the ugly scene that he knew would follow.

For his part, Harry looked up at Douglas, blinked, tried to focus, and then asked the same question that he asked without fail every day. ‘Any luck tracking down Sylvia?’

Douglas sat down. ‘I had a reply from the camp at Marlow,’ he said, keeping his voice as level as he could manage. ‘She’s not in their records, nor the ones at Cheltenham. But no news yet from any of the other camps in Essex, nor in Kent.’ He kept talking, trying to stave off Harry’s reply. ‘It takes time, Harry. They’ve no reason to be quick about it, and the fact that I’m –’

He stopped himself. He had been going to say “SS”. But he was not that, even if the Army could not grasp the distinction. ‘They’re difficult about releasing the information,’ he finished.

‘Not to worry. I know that you don’t want to push your luck.’ Harry paused. ‘Just like you didn’t want to push your luck with Huth.’

Surely Harry realised, Douglas thought angrily, that Huth would simply have laughed at him if he had asked for Sylvia’s release as well. He had arranged Harry’s release only because he was goaded into it, not because he had needed to. By the end of his game with Douglas, Huth had been holding all the cards.

‘Harry, we have to be prepared…’ Douglas knew as soon as he started speaking that whatever he said would not be well received. ‘You know that we have to be prepared never to find out what happened to her. You know that she might be…’

‘Dead?’ said Harry. Unsaid, but just as clear as if he had vocalised it, was the end of the sentence: “like all the others”.

‘Perhaps,’ said Douglas quietly. ‘But you’re still alive. I only wish you’d stop using that as a stick to beat us both with.’

Douglas’s intervention worked about as well as he had expected. Harry looked first stultified, then silently livid, and then changed the subject. ‘We’ve had a phone call,’ he said abruptly. ‘Someone saying they have information about the Camden drowning. Wouldn’t say anything over the phone – they want to meet.’

‘Anyone we know?’

Harry gave an irritable twitch of the shoulders. ‘Didn’t sound like it. Wants to meet in a pub off Fetter Lane – the Black Dog. Asked for you to go. He wants to talk to you in person.’

‘Or he might want to put a bullet in me,’ said Douglas. It was not hard to imagine that this was a Resistance member trying to lure him into a poorly constructed trap. It would be foolhardy for him to go alone, and yet there Harry sat, giving no sign that he planned to accompany him. Pride, or perhaps despair, prevented Douglas from asking for help. ‘When?’ he said.

‘One pm,’ said Harry promptly. ‘Better get going.’

Douglas made very certain to take the pistol from his desk drawer and slide it into his coat pocket before leaving the room. But if Harry noticed, then he did not acknowledge it.


	3. Chapter 3

The Black Dog was a cramped little pub, cowering between taller buildings in an insignificant courtyard. All the back streets and alleyways near Fleet Street had the same air now, as though they felt ashamed for having escaped the bombs that had passed so close and destroyed their neighbours.

The publican matched his establishment. He was a thin man, older than his years, who all but cringed and shied away when he learned that Douglas was here to meet somebody in private. ‘Of course, sir,’ he said, in a barely audible whisper. ‘He’s in the back room. Let me show you through.’

Despite the man’s demeanour, Douglas was sure that he had not been recognised, and was glad of it. He saw the same look in people’s eyes far too often now when they realised it was Archer of the Yard that they were speaking to, notorious assistant to the SD. Even some of his informants no longer wanted anything to do with him, and they were used to mixing in the lowest substrata of London’s criminal underworld.

It became clear as they proceeded through the pub that the place had been assembled piecemeal over the decades, spreading out into the yard behind. The back room was some way from the main bar, perfectly situated for a private meeting.

Douglas waited until the publican had disappeared down the passageway, and then took out his gun. With the pistol at the ready, he turned the door handle using his left hand, and entered.

Immediately he realised how dark it was in the room – light trickled in grudgingly from one tiny window off to his right. There was no seeing anything while his eyes adjusted, and certainly no avoiding his fate if the occupant’s purpose was to harm him.

‘Superintendent Archer.’

It was a cultured voice, far different from what Douglas expected, coming here to meet an informant. Calm, familiar, and instantly recognisable. Unmistakeable too, as Douglas began to see more clearly, were the size and posture of the man, the pallor of his face in the ill-lit room.

Standartenführer Huth was sitting there staring at him.

He looked odd in civilian clothes: robbed of some of his power. Nonetheless, he carried the disguise off quite convincingly, wearing a suit that was muted and unremarkable, not like Kellerman and his egregious tweeds. His eyes gave him away, though. They were still full of that familiar insolence and ambition, the like of which would never have been seen in one of the occupied population.

Douglas strongly considered shooting him. Now would be the time to do it, he thought wildly: while he had the element of surprise. Huth would never get to his feet and move around the table fast enough to stop him. But then what? Would he tell the publican that the stranger had tried to attack him, that he was a known criminal, dangerous, shot while trying to escape? And pass it off to the SS as a case of mistaken identity, hoping that Kellerman, in his overwhelming gratitude that Huth had been dispatched, would be merciful? Perhaps the people who whispered that Douglas was no better than his employers were not far wrong.

And now, somehow, it was too late to shoot Huth. ‘What are you doing here?’ said Douglas roughly. ‘Why are you in London?’

‘Unfinished business of Springer’s.’

He carried on talking. An investigation. Loose ends. Only a couple of days. Douglas saw that Huth did not look him in the eye, and judged that all or none of it might be true.

‘Why aren’t you at Scotland Yard?’

Huth glanced at him. ‘As I said, a couple of days.’

More likely he was staying out of Kellerman’s way. Although, in the end, no blood had been drawn in their skirmish – no blood of their own in any case – each of them had learned how dangerous the other might prove to be.

Now Huth stretched out a leg and nudged the chair opposite him towards Douglas, letting it scrape across the floor. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

Despite himself, Douglas sat. Noting his reluctance, Huth said blandly, ‘You’re not still angry about Mayhew and his friends?’

Douglas was still angry. In the most guilt-ridden depths of his mind, Mayhew had assumed the status of martyr: a hero dying for King and country. There were no more George Mayhews, and Douglas had been instrumental in destroying him, and Bernard, who had been his friend, and many others.

‘He would have betrayed you in an instant, if it served him,’ said Huth, cutting brutally across Douglas’s reverie. ‘And your son with you.’ He sighed. ‘They didn’t go to the gallows cursing you, Archer, absolve yourself of that. They knew what they were getting into, and what the consequences could be.’

Douglas sprang to his feet. The walls of this small room were creeping in, enclosing him, and he would surely suffocate if he did not get out, and if that cold, languid voice did not shut up. He was nearly at the door when Huth said, ‘The woman, the Barga woman. She’s safe.’ There was an odd note in his voice – Douglas might almost have called it desperation. It was enough to make him turn and look at Huth.

‘She’s safe,’ said Huth again. ‘And she wasn’t hurt, I swear to it. Right up until she was deported, no-one laid a hand on her. I made sure of that.’

‘Are you expecting me to thank you?’

‘No. But there is something else.’ Huth was choosing his words carefully. ‘You will recall that I made you an offer, back in November. I’d like you to reconsider.’

Douglas laughed, long and without mirth. He could not help it, did not even care if the publican heard him and wondered what was going on. It was so typical of Huth to appear unannounced and dig up subjects long buried, raking around in the detritus of everything that he was trying to forget. ‘A job? On your staff?’

Huth nodded.

Douglas was feeling reckless. ‘And if your star with the Reichsführer wanes, what then?’ 

Huth actually had the gall to look offended, as though this were a terrible, unforgivable thing to say. ‘It won’t,’ he said curtly. ‘Why should it? In case you’d forgotten, I retrieved the atomic research from the Spode brothers, and I uncovered that Resistance plot to free the King.’ He shot Douglas a sly glance. ‘Or rather, we did. I’m sure Heinrich would be delighted to meet you.’

Douglas said nothing. He suddenly regretted not shooting Huth the second he had recognised him.

‘And you’re not popular here,’ said Huth expansively, developing his theme. ‘How many attempts on your life has it been now? Three, four? There was that one last week outside the Yard, wasn’t there? Your would-be assailant was shot by the guards.’ He studied his fingernails. ‘How long, do you think, before they succeed in one of their attempts on you – or your son?’

‘Will you _stop talking about my son?'_ Douglas knew that he had not intended to slam his fist onto the table, but it happened all the same. He and Huth both looked at it, planted on the surface between them.

Huth’s smile held a hint of admiration, yet when he spoke, his voice was low and sincere. ‘If not the Resistance, then Kellerman.’ He nodded at the empty chair and Douglas, without quite knowing why, sat down again.

‘What about Kellerman?’

‘Kellerman hates you, Archer, don’t you realise? He’d be furious if he even suspected you were meeting with me. However he tried to twist things, our investigation made him look foolish. All that plotting, going on right under his nose. He won’t trust you again. And worse, he wants to bring you into line.’

Huth glanced at the small, grimy window. The light caught his eyes, and Douglas noticed suddenly how tired he looked. ‘Kellerman is making plans to send your son to school in Germany. A boarding school, of course, a Hitler Youth unit. Do you think you could expect to see him more than once a year, if that happens? And what they’d turn him into – the bullshit they shove down their throats in those places?’

Douglas went cold. He could imagine it all too clearly, far too clearly even to be amused by Huth claiming to eschew the bullshit of the Nazi state. It was like waking in the middle of the night to find someone looming over you in the darkness, caught in the act, just about to plunge a knife into your heart.

‘If you come to Berlin,’ said Huth, ‘Douggie will live with you. He’ll attend a local school. You can hire a housekeeper, a nanny to look after him. And even when he’s older no-one will try to send him off to a Napola or anything like that, if you don’t want him to go. I won’t allow it.’

‘And what would his classmates think of him in Berlin?’ said Douglas slowly. ‘An Englishman’s son, from an occupied territory, barely able to speak German –’

‘He will learn quickly enough. Besides, no-one will create too much trouble for the son of an SD officer.’

In any other situation, about any other organisation, Huth’s blind faith in the power of the SD to sweep all problems aside might have been almost endearing. Now, as if taking Douglas’s agreement as given, he carried on: ‘I can get you onto a flight next week. Once I’ve brought you into the SD – and there will be no hold-ups – once we’ve made the necessary arrangements… two months, ten weeks at most, your son can join you.’ He paused, frowning. ‘If you’re worried about him while you’re away, that sergeant of yours, Harry – get him to help look after Douggie. He should be at a loose end once you’re gone.’

‘You expect me to be ready to move to Berlin next week, and my son in two months,’ said Douglas dully.

Huth raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s keeping you here, honestly, Archer? Anyway, it need not be permanent. Kellerman can’t possibly stay in his job forever, so I may well come back to London, and you with me. Douggie could still be educated here.’

‘Oh, _even better!_ An SD officer’s son _in London!'_ Douglas could no longer contain his scorn. But Huth, he saw, was looking down at his own hands.

‘Archer, I…’ He had placed his fingers along the edge of the table and was sliding them back and forth without seeming to realise he was doing it. ‘This really is the most I can offer you.’

Was it possible, wondered Douglas, that instead of spending the past two months speaking with the experts on his investigation, and basking in the lukewarm glow of Himmler’s praise, Huth had been making arrangements to bring him to Berlin? It seemed barely credible.

‘I am sorry, Archer,’ said Huth suddenly. He looked at Douglas.

Both his face and his voice were defeated, yet somehow terrifying in their unexpected sincerity. Douglas could not bear to meet his eyes. It was worse than seeing him drunk.

It was so often the way with people like Huth. He had swept in like a spoilt and overexcited child, adamant that all resources, all attention, all prizes come to him. Now that time and distance had made him realise he had ruined things for the other children, he was acting out of semi-petulant remorse. But the only way he could try to make amends was by offering Douglas an even worse option than the joyless life he currently endured.

‘You know damn well what you’ve done to me,’ said Douglas steadily, getting up from his chair. ‘I won’t let you do the same thing to my son.’

He turned to go. Behind him, Huth said, ‘I’m staying at Brook Street again, Archer. I leave on Friday. Think about what I’ve told you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kellerman's plan to send Douggie to school in Germany is mentioned in the last few pages of the novel, and really does cement his status as a terrible human being. The TV series upped the ante by replacing this plot point with his fondness for angling-related torture methods...


	4. Chapter 4

When Douglas got back to Scotland Yard, the last of the tea left in the pot near his desk was over-stewed and almost cold. He drank it anyway, trying to persuade himself that it brought him some measure of comfort.

He felt sick. Huth’s unexpected reappearance had shaken him more than he had first thought. It had been bad enough talking to the man, but some essence of him had come back to the office too, like the smell of smoke trapped in clothing. His voice echoed in Douglas’s mind, repeating all his calmly persuasive warnings. He wondered what it must be like to be Huth, to set to work each day with such energy and leave only ruined lives in your wake; to be greeted with fear and dismay wherever you went. Even today, his attempt at altruism had done nothing but create more human misery.

The door opened, and Harry entered the office. The room was otherwise deserted, and Douglas expected that Harry would find what he was looking for and quickly leave, pretending disinterest in the informant. Instead, Harry came and sat down in the chair opposite him. Douglas blinked. Harry did not seek him out for casual conversation anymore, especially when there was no tea to be had.

‘I expect you took the smug bastard up on his offer, then?’ said Harry. 

_‘What?’_

Harry’s face betrayed just the smallest hint of satisfaction that his question had had the desired effect. Douglas stared at him, trying to work out whether there was any chance that he could have been followed, overheard. ‘You knew he was meeting me?’ he said, hardly able to believe it.

‘I gave you the news about the tip-off, didn’t I?’ Harry was still quite unsmiling. ‘So, what did you tell him?’

‘I…’ Douglas returned his teacup to its saucer with more force than he had intended. ‘How can you think that I – I would never… Of course I didn’t take him up on it! I told him no!’

Harry looked him up and down, frowning slightly. ‘Hmmm. Pity.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘What I’m talking about, Superintendent, is that maybe you should go with him. Might be for the best.’

Douglas had never heard such a harsh note in Harry’s voice before, nor seen such anger in his eyes, not even when he was a small boy and Harry had only narrowly stopped him from running out into one of the busy streets near his house. ‘You can’t possibly mean that,’ he said.

‘You don’t think so? No, Berlin’s the best place for you, I reckon.’ Harry inhaled deeply. ‘Go and terrorize the Jerries instead, leave your own countrymen in peace. You’ve done enough good here.’

‘I’m here to _protect_ people!’

‘Do you never get bored of hearing yourself say that, Superintendent Archer?’ Harry’s voice was quiet, but poisonous. ‘Does it never occur to you that if you have to say it so many times, it might not be true?’

Douglas had run out of words to defend himself. He felt exhausted by the onslaught – he would rather that Harry had been punching him.

‘Your friend Huth’s had me reporting back to him since the moment he got me released,’ said Harry. It appeared he took no pleasure in making this revelation. ‘He got his claws into me right away – sat me down in his office and made all sorts of threats. So I want you gone, Douglas. Once you’re out of here, there’s just a chance that he’ll leave me alone.’

Douglas had never imagined, never guessed how bad things had got between him and Harry. He recalled the very first time he had seen the SS in the Scotland Yard building, and realised that the horror he had experienced then was nothing like so shattering as what he felt now. As long as he could remember, he had looked up to Harry, and now Harry thought he belonged with _them_ : the invaders, the people who had destroyed things for them both.

He got up to leave, though he had not the first idea where he was planning to go. ‘There was a phone call for you, just now,’ said Harry.

‘What was it, another “tip-off”?’

‘Joyce Sheenan. Called from a neighbour’s house. Apparently there’s been some trouble.’

‘What _sort_ of trouble?’ It was one of the very few times in Douglas’s life when he genuinely felt that he could have shaken Harry.

The other man shrugged. ‘Didn’t say. Perhaps you should get back there, find out.’

But Douglas had already taken his hat and coat, and dashed out of the office.

Huth seemed to cling even closer to Douglas as he half-walked, half-sprinted back to Monmouth Street, his predictions sounding louder and more urgently in his ears. It was the first time that Douglas had ever missed his former boss, if only because Huth’s presence at Scotland Yard would have allowed him access to a car. As it was, the journey took long enough for any number of scenarios, each worse than the last, to play themselves out in Douglas’s mind. He could not help but wonder if Huth was behind this, if he could have sent someone to threaten Douglas’s son just to prove his point. It would be underhanded even for Huth, but Douglas would put nothing past him.

Douglas recognised the eerie calm on Monmouth Street straight away: the silence of the passers-by, their stiff, uninterested postures. It was the look of the civilian population trying to ignore what has taken place lest they too be swept up in it. And there it was, as Douglas reached the house. There was blood on the pavement, smeared lightly across the stones, in some places pooled undisturbed in heavy drops. Douglas dashed forward, too panicked to register that the bloodstains did not extend off the paving stones towards the house.

Mrs Sheenan emerged, pale and red-eyed, but holding out her hands immediately to calm Douglas. ‘Mr Archer,’ she said softly, as though she were a teacher and he a schoolchild that must be encouraged not to shout.

‘Douggie?’ stammered Douglas, and then, remembering himself, ‘Bob?’

‘They’re both all right.’ Although she appeared unhurt, Mrs Sheenan’s voice shook. ‘Mrs Evans from two doors down is sitting with them. She’s been ever so kind – she let me use her phone, too.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Come through here.’ She beckoned Douglas into the shop at the bottom of the house – for now deserted – and out into the tiny yard behind. ‘I don’t want them to have to hear it all again, poor things.’

‘Are you sure you won’t be cold, Mrs Sheenan?’ said Douglas. It was a mild enough day for February, but the air was chilly and Mrs Sheenan’s coat threadbare.

The woman shook her head, probably too overtaken by events to know whether she was cold or not. Douglas saw that she was wondering how to explain, and he knew that whatever had happened must be something to do with the fact that she accepted rent from him – a collaborator.

‘Who was it?’ he said, expecting to be told it was a stranger, some agent of the Resistance – or of Huth’s.

‘I was just bringing the boys home from school.’ Mrs Sheenan spoke almost mechanically, forcing herself to churn the words out. ‘We were nearly back at the house, and then Mrs Wilkinson, who lives on the corner…’ She broke off. ‘She lost her husband, you remember? And now it seems that her son…’

‘Robert,’ said Douglas. He had recognised him sometimes in the street – a stocky, fair-haired boy of sixteen or seventeen.

‘Well, it seems he was arrested,’ said Mrs Sheenan, now on the verge of tears. ‘Out after curfew, painting slogans on walls, some silliness that boys do. She swore he didn’t do anything serious. But she’d just had word that he’s…’

‘Oh God.’ Douglas looked at her. ‘Please, Mrs Sheenan, if it’s too upsetting for you, you don’t have to tell me now.’

‘He died in custody, that’s all the Germans would tell her,’ Mrs Sheenan said tonelessly. ‘She’d only just had the news. So she came up to us on the street, and she was shouting, telling me what had happened. And she… she was trying to get to Bob and Douggie, saying all these things…’

‘Saying I work for the Germans, and how would _I_ like it if my son were taken away,’ said Douglas. Mrs Sheenan nodded and stifled a sob.

‘People came out to see what was going on, of course, and some of them tried to reason with her, and someone came and got me away from her, me and the children. Some of them…’

Douglas took her silence to mean that some of the locals had been inclined to agree with the bereaved Mrs Wilkinson.

‘A foot patrol heard the noise and came to break it up. They have them now, going round all the streets near Covent Garden. But she wouldn’t just be _quiet_ – she carried on shouting, talking about the Germans. They took her away with them in the end.’

‘Whose was the blood?’ said Douglas, not that it really mattered. Whoever’s it was, they had not deserved it.

‘A man. I didn’t recognise him. He tried to stop them from handling her so roughly. They set on him, and then they took him too. I don’t know how badly he was hurt.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Douglas.

‘It’s not your fault, Mr Archer.’

After what had occurred, Douglas did not imagine that she could really believe that. ‘Can I see Douggie?’ he said.

‘Of course, we’ll go up.’

Douglas had barely entered the kitchen before Douggie flung himself at him. He bent down to hug his son, looking over to where Bob and Mrs Evans were watching from their places at the table. Bob appeared scarcely calmer than Douggie, and his mother went to comfort him.

Douggie must have been dreadfully frightened – he would not normally have cried and clung onto his father in front of Bob. Douglas realised that he did not yet know the exact details of what Mrs Wilkinson had said, what his son had been forced to hear. He was not sure that he could bring himself to ask.

‘It’s all right, Douggie, I’m here now.’

The sobs shuddering through the boy’s body began to die out, but he did not release his grip on Douglas. He was still so small, so fragile. Without wanting to, Douglas imagined him being forced into uniform, starved of all sympathy or affection, inducted into a regime that revelled in its own brutality. Not only would Douggie fail to thrive in such a place, he might not even survive it.

Kellerman was bound to find out what had happened. Douglas saw his broad face, the brow furrowed in mock concern as he spoke about the incident. Should they not do something, he would ask, to ensure Douggie’s safety? And then he would set it out in front of him: the act of generosity that could not be refused, the snare slipping tighter each time he tried to pull away.

He clasped his son in his arms more tightly. ‘Don’t worry, Douggie. No-one’s going to hurt you.’

The boy must never know, of course. He could never be allowed even to guess that his terrified embrace had finally driven Douglas to make his decision.


	5. Chapter 5

Setting out the next day, Douglas half hoped at every point to be turned away, saved by the intervention of fate. The SS guards were meticulous in studying his pass at the cordon in Mayfair, and Douglas began to believe that he would not be allowed to access Brook Street, that Huth would remain safely beyond his reach. But they handed his pass back and waved him through. He even had a horrible suspicion that the SS men had recognised his name and were looking at him with approval.

Then, when he got to the hotel, the SS officer manning the lobby told him that Huth was not there. Little thinking that a senior officer of the SD would permit details of his whereabouts to be handed out to strangers, Douglas was ready to admit defeat.

‘Your name?’ said the SS officer in his polite, impersonal English.

‘Superintendent Archer.’

The officer studied him with curiosity. ‘The Standartenführer left instructions,’ he said, evidently wondering why he should have done so for this visitor. ‘I am to tell you that you can find him at Highgate.’

The gates of the cemetery were Douglas’s last barrier. As he approached, he began to wonder if he might be refused access, offered a last-minute reprieve. He had not heard of civilians being permitted to enter, and he could only imagine that the Army guarded the place jealously, anxious not to re-enact their notorious security failure.

There were armed guards at the gate, two of them. A third man emerged from a hut to check Douglas’s papers. And his pass got him through with only a cursory nod. He walked past the soldiers, feeling like a man condemned.

He found Huth immediately, a lone, dark figure, standing in front of the huge slab of shining white marble that had been erected just inside the entrance. Offensively at odds with the Victorian decrepitude of the rest of the graveyard, it was as crude a monument as any the Nazi state had ever produced, in which regard it was up against some stiff competition. At least they had known better than to encourage a repeat attack by unveiling it with any pomp or ceremony.

Douglas walked closer. He could make out the detail on the memorial now: the swastika entwined with the hammer and sickle at the top, embracing in perpetuity – or until such time as the pact broke down. Below it were the names: German on the left, Russian on the right. Douglas noted with sour amusement how the Army, SS and Party had declined to intermingle their personnel even in death, memorialising them instead in three separate lists. Professor Springer’s name was at the very top of the list of SS members killed in the explosion.

‘Hideous, isn’t it?’ said Huth. Douglas had found him standing with his head bowed, cap removed and hanging loosely from his hand, but now he straightened up. ‘Springer would have hated it. He had no time for this sort of shit – that’s what I liked about him.’ He sniffed. ‘His wife – his widow – wanted me to come.’

He put his cap back on, positioning it carefully, and turned away from Douglas to look across the graveyard. The debris had long since been cleared away, but it was a bleak scene nonetheless – there was no concealing the wounds inflicted by the bombing. Douglas thought of all the venerable Londoners who had little imagined that their last resting places would be torn open, their monuments destroyed. He wondered if the Germans had taken the trouble to return every corpse to its proper grave, or if they could even have hoped to do so.

There was scant vegetation at this time of year to shroud the disturbed earth and splintered stonework, little to give relief to the eye. Still, here and there snowdrops were emerging from the grass. There was a clump near the base of the German memorial. Spring would come, even in London. Perhaps he should wait to see it arrive.

But flowers would grow anywhere. Douglas recalled the preceding summer, the profusion of buddleia bushes colonising the ruins of Mansion House; spines of purple flowers peeking between the scattered stones and filling the air with their sickly-sweet scent. Few other things could hope to grow and thrive so successfully when forced to seed themselves in devastation.

‘And you? What are you doing here?’ Introspection finished with and swept aside, Huth had turned back to him.

‘Guarantee Douggie’s safety, as we discussed,’ said Douglas. ‘I need to know that he will be protected, from this moment on.’ He found that he could not look at Huth – his uniform, his thin smile, his pale, knowing gaze: a man in whose hands his son’s welfare should never have rested. 

‘Yes?’ said Huth. It was both a confirmation and a prompt.

Douglas forced himself to raise his eyes. He might be choosing to damn himself utterly, but he ought not to do it while staring at the floor like a guilty child. ‘If you will do that, then I accept your offer.’

Huth stared at him, no doubt searching for evidence of a lie, a trick. He would not find one, thought Douglas. He felt suddenly very weary.

An expression that Douglas did not recognise passed across Huth’s face. The smile broadened; the eyes that had been suspicious became alarmingly guileless. Douglas realised that he had never seen him sincerely, openly pleased about something. All it took, he had discovered, was the near-impossible feat of telling him some piece of good news that he had not anticipated.

Huth reached forward, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ve made the right decision, Archer.’ He clapped Douglas on the shoulder again and then withdrew his arm hastily – a sure sign that he was, on some level, overcome by emotion. He stepped away from the memorial. ‘Come with me – come back to Brook Street. We can talk about it there.’

Was this really it, thought Douglas. There was to be no more time, not another moment to breathe freely? He had accepted Huth’s offer, and now he had to go with him, immediately to begin the process of casting off his old life and commencing a new one? But of course, it had never been any different with Huth – he should have known what to expect. From now on, everything would happen with horrifying speed.

Turning his back on the dead, he followed Huth in the direction of the gates.

 

Douggie helped him pack. Bringing his son into his confidence, as far as he could, was the only way that Douglas could think of to lessen the shock of his departure. The boy seemed content, moving between cupboards and drawers, fetching the possessions that his father would need. He knew that somewhere on the other side of the closed door Bob was doing his homework under his mother’s watchful eye, burning with curiosity.

‘Good boy, Douggie.’ Douglas took the shirts that his son was holding out to him. He did not want Douggie to see how he felt, looking at these things that already – and awfully – seemed like relics of the past. He bent his head over the suitcase.

Huth had given him a final chance to change his mind. By the time he had explained to Douglas, with his usual mixture of precise detail and dark insinuations, how the process would work; and by the time he had opened the brandy left for him in his rooms so that they could toast Douglas’s decision, the light was fading outside and the lamps were being lit along Brook Street.

‘You understand that there will be no going back?’ Huth had said, quite amiably. ‘Once you are in Berlin, the only way out would be if you proved… unsuitable. And I know that you won’t.’

A strange calm had settled on Douglas since he had made his choice; the alcohol further dulled any desire to reconsider. ‘Of course I understand.’

And Huth, quietly satisfied, had raised his glass to him again; and they both drank.

‘When will you be back?’ said Douggie.

‘Soon,’ said Douglas. ‘Only a few weeks.’ He hoped desperately that Huth had not misled him in saying so. ‘And Harry will be here to look after you while I’m gone. He’ll visit every day.’

‘Does Harry know where you’re going?’ said the boy, in a small voice.

Douglas hesitated. ‘Yes.’

‘Then why can’t you tell me?’

‘Douggie…’ Douglas sat on the bed, patting the counterpane beside him to make his son sit down too. ‘Come on, you’re sensible. You know that sometimes I have to keep secrets. You’re used to that, aren’t you?’ He pressed on, feeling as though he were reading from a script he had prepared for this conversation. ‘You mustn’t worry. And don’t listen to what the other boys at school say to you.’ Far too many of Douggie’s classmates knew what it was to have a relative disappear suddenly, often never to return. 

‘Is it Germany?’ said Douggie quietly. It was a lucky guess, perhaps, or the conclusion of his whispered speculations with Bob. In any case, he saw the panicked glance that his father shot towards the door, and his eyes became ablaze with excitement.

‘I’ve said I can’t tell you,’ said Douglas. ‘Now, Douggie, listen to me. You mustn’t say anything, understand, not to anyone. And if anyone asks, you tell them you don’t know.’

‘All right, Dad.’ His own bit of detective work having succeeded, the boy’s mood brightened. Douglas was not sure why he should believe that Germany was a safer place for his father than another, unknown destination, but was glad that he did.

Douggie went to the dresser and began to look in one of the drawers. ‘Dad?’ he said from across the room.

‘What is it, Douggie?’

His son trotted over to him, smiling, arms full of knitted sweaters to put in the suitcase. ‘Will you bring me back any new badges?’


	6. Chapter 6

April 1942

The line was bad. Summoning such patience as he could muster, Douglas waited for the crackling and hissing to subside before speaking again. ‘Harry, are you still there? I arrive tomorrow, about three.’

He was acutely aware that his office-mate was listening to the call, pretending to read a report but in fact taking the opportunity to practise his English. Hauptsturmführer Brandt was as even-tempered and probably as decent a man as one was likely to find working here at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, but one could hardly expect an SD officer not to listen in and remember everything that was said. He was about as likely to go ten minutes without breathing. 

After a delay, Harry’s voice came again, ‘Tomorrow, yes. I heard you the first time.’

‘What have you told –’ Douglas broke off. Stupid, he knew, but something prevented him from speaking Douggie’s name in this building. ‘What have you told my son?’ he said.

‘I haven’t told your son a damned thing! Do you expect me to be the one to tell him that his father’s –‘

‘He’d guessed I’m in Germany,’ said Douglas, silencing Harry. ‘Just tell him that I have a new job. He’s clever, isn’t he, he’ll work it out?’ He felt harried, eager to bring an end to the conversation. He did not really imagine that Brandt would find anything untoward to report back on, but one never knew.

Harry’s exclamation was muffled by the noise on the line. ‘Maybe he did guess that, but Bob’s put some nonsense into his head the past couple of weeks, and now the poor little blighter thinks you’re on a top-secret mission in America!’

‘Look, tell him what I told you. Tell him I’m coming. I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.’ Douglas put the phone down.

Across the office, Brandt raised his cautious, feldgrau-coloured eyes from his report and said, ‘You must be looking forward to seeing your son.’

‘Very much,’ said Douglas carefully, and both men returned to their work.

Anyway, Douglas thought, Brandt had no cause to believe that his new colleague was receiving preferential treatment. Brandt liked to present himself as a man of narrow horizons, focussed almost exclusively on his reports and his notes from interviews with informers. So long as he filed regular updates on his progress identifying political dissidents in Berlin, which he did with the placid demeanour of a gundog setting down the carcasses of birds before its master, then Huth let him get on with his work. It was Douglas, in his new role as personal assistant, who spent much of his time assembling dossiers for the Standartenführer, accompanying him to meetings, lingering in the building after hours in case he should need anything. More than once, Douglas had peered into Huth’s office late at night to find him still poring over his work, exactly as he had been several hours earlier. ‘Go home, Archer!’ Huth had said on these occasions. ‘Don’t you realise the time?’

Douglas did not mind working late. If he had spent too long alone in his apartment then he would only have fallen to wondering from whom it had been seized, and where they were now. And he had lived there for too short a time to consider it home. The moment that his citizenship had come through, he had been packed off for ideological training with other officers recruited to the security services. Only upon his return to Berlin a few weeks ago had the apartment been found for him.

The whole process had gone as smoothly as Huth had promised, but he had made it quite clear what he expected in return. Douglas had a near-unachievable amount of work to complete over the next few days in London: documents to obtain, leads to follow up, informants to interview. And of course, when General Kellerman called him to his office for a friendly chat, Douglas was to glean all information he could about how things stood at Scotland Yard. Out of everything, Douglas was looking forward to this conversation least.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside was followed closely by Huth appearing in the doorway. The office’s occupants got to their feet; but Huth nodded at Brandt to sit back down, and he returned immediately to his reading.

Huth approached Douglas’s desk. ‘Obersturmführer.’

Thus far, Huth had not gone a day without addressing him by his new rank. Undoubtedly he knew that Douglas hated it, and hoped to cure him of the affliction by overuse. _Remember what you are now,_ he seemed to be saying each time – as though Douglas, surrounded by his new comrades and confronted by yet another of them each time he caught sight of himself in a mirror, was ever likely to forget.

‘Standartenführer?’

‘The files I asked for – bring them through to my office.’ He went out again.

By the time Douglas entered the office Huth was already back behind his desk, signing forms. Douglas put the files down on a table and waited. This was a magnificent room, albeit aggressively functional compared with many of the grand offices that he had seen elsewhere in the building. It was not a place for socialising or entertaining – Huth never made it his aim to entertain anyone. On the tables against the wall were piled diagrams and manuals rehomed from Professor Springer’s office; Huth’s desk, meanwhile, was a semi-chaos of arrest orders, scribbled notes, and correspondence with the physicists whom the Standartenführer was trying to co-opt into the SS. Poor bastards, thought Douglas.

Along the corridor, Springer’s former office stood empty. After Huth had comprehensively ransacked his boss’s paperwork, the professor’s personal effects had been removed. Now they waited to see who would occupy the space.

Huth said, ‘All the arrangements are made for tomorrow. Boerner is an SD man – he will meet you and see that you have everything you need.’ His meaning was clear: Douglas was not to fall back on old friends or into old habits. It made Douglas want to laugh. Who on earth would be pleased to see him at Scotland Yard? Most people probably believed that he had absconded, or been secretly killed or imprisoned. They would be horrified, not relieved, when they learned the truth.

‘Make sure that you speak to Kellerman,’ said Huth. ‘Find out how martial law is treating him.’ There were rumours circling in Berlin that the General was not at present held high in Himmler’s esteem, and Huth was eager to verify them. 

‘Of course,’ Douglas said. ‘But surely he won’t be prepared to tell me much? Not now.’

‘Then you’ll need to work out what’s going on from what he _doesn’t_ say, won’t you?’ Huth laughed suddenly. ‘If conversation runs dry, ask the old bastard what he thought when the letter from the Reichsführer landed on his desk, transferring you to the SD with immediate effect. I’d like to hear that.’ He rose to his feet and began gathering up files. ‘I’m meeting with the Reichsführer now.’ Pre-empting Douglas’s question, he said, ‘No, I don’t need you.’

That was something to be thankful for. Douglas had the idea that Huth limited his exposure to Himmler. Perhaps he did not want to give the impression that he had created a distraction for himself by training a new assistant.

Douglas had been presented to the Reichsführer, along with other new recruits, not long after his induction into the SD. As an officer attached to Himmler’s staff he had been favoured with special treatment: a limp handshake, a few words. It seemed that Huth spoke highly of him. Huth, lingering in the background at the time, had managed to convey with a single look just how quickly that would change if Douglas failed to impress. Thus motivated, Douglas paid the suitably restrained obeisance that was expected towards the man who had, after all, personally fast-tracked his German citizenship.

‘You did well, Archer,’ Huth had told him later. ‘He liked you.’ As with most of Huth’s praise, it left Douglas feeling uneasy.

Himmler cut an oddly unimpressive figure, particularly surrounded by his entourage, some of whom were sturdy older men who could have felled their master with a single punch. Many of the others Douglas had met were similar to Huth: young and ambitious, circling like sharks. Chiefly, Douglas was struck by Himmler’s eyes. Even partially obscured behind his spectacles, they were so cold that they made Huth’s seem warm and friendly in comparison.

‘Find the forms you need on my desk.’ Huth was already on his way out. Pausing on the threshold, he turned and said, ‘Good luck, Archer.’ 

‘Thank you, Standartenführer.’

Huth studied Douglas– guessing his thoughts, divining his misgivings. It was a habit that had grown no less disconcerting the longer Douglas had known him. These days he always found himself expecting Huth to notice some deficiency in his uniform or bearing and deliver a rebuke.

Huth seemed, for a moment, to struggle with himself. ‘Your son will be grateful, one day,’ he said at last; and left before Douglas could come up with a reply.

 

Untersturmführer Boerner was much younger than Douglas, probably not more than twenty-five. There was little disparity in their ranks, and Douglas found his servility surprising. Many of his fellow lieutenants seemed to dislike him, especially those who had worked their way up to officer status. They must resent the fact that Douglas could expect rapid promotion, so long as his work was satisfactory. 

In the car from the airport, Boerner said nervously, ‘It seems that word of your arrival may have got around at Scotland Yard.’

‘I thought that the remit of the SD was supposed to be secrecy,’ said Douglas, without thinking. He intended it as a joke, but Boerner had already begun to apologise. Douglas realised that Huth’s reputation preceded him.

However much Douglas might have wished it otherwise, Boerner was right. As they entered the building and crossed the lobby, he was aware of people stopping to look at him fractionally after he had passed by. He carefully ignored everyone from secretaries to officers, trying to concentrate on what Boerner was saying – something banal about the organisation of SD personnel at the Yard. But, as they reached the foot of the stairs and Douglas started to believe that the worst of the ordeal was over, they met Harry and two other plain-clothes officers descending.

Harry did not recognise him at first. It was only after a couple of seconds that something lit up in the old man’s eyes – and there twisted, withered and died. Harry walked on without acknowledging him. On the faces of the other officers there was mild interest, not the shock or hatred that Douglas had expected. They stared just long enough to confirm that this was indeed Douglas Archer, and then followed Harry.

Quick to identify a possible scapegoat, Boerner said, ‘Do you want me to…?’

‘No. I don’t want you to do anything. Just show me to where I’ll be working.’ Douglas followed Boerner up the stairs.

It had not occurred to him how his former countrymen would see things. In Berlin he was an outsider, viewed by his co-workers with – at best – polite suspicion. He might have been deemed fit to join their number and wear their uniform; he might have sworn his oaths; but he had yet to prove himself. Until he did, he was merely a curio deposited in their midst by the whim of a senior officer. But as far as many of the British were concerned, he had switched allegiances the moment that the Germans arrived in Scotland Yard. Now his conversion was absolute, and everywhere in the building people were probably shaking their heads and saying that they had known all along.

The call from General Kellerman’s office came just as Douglas was starting to believe that he had avoided it for the day. It was edging towards five o’clock, and he was sure that the General would soon repair to his favoured club, but it seemed that he had planned some pre-prandial entertainment for himself in the form of Douglas. Glott, waiting on guard duty outside the office when he arrived, indicated by the merest jerk of the head that he should knock. 

Kellerman called, _‘Herein!’_

Douglas entered, conscious suddenly that this was a test. Taking a couple of paces into the office, he stopped and saluted. It was becoming automatic now, as was expected; and he thought perhaps that the pang of disgust the gesture sent through him was growing less intense each time.

‘Obersturmführer Archer!’ Beaming, Kellerman hurried over. He kept Douglas standing at attention while he looked him up and down, stepping back half a pace to study him in full. ‘A man transformed!’ All at once, he nodded to indicate that Douglas could stand at ease and then lunged forward to shake him by the hand. ‘Let me congratulate you!’

Shown to his usual chair and permitted to sit down, Douglas reminded himself to keep the correct posture. He found himself full of a mulish determination that he would not make a mistake or forget protocol, despite Kellerman’s attempts to make him uncomfortable.

‘And how do you find Berlin?’ said Kellerman.

Douglas wondered whether he was expected to comment on the city or on his new job. ‘It is a great privilege to be there,’ he said.

‘You know, the Reichsführer mentioned you, the last time that we spoke. I am sure he has high hopes for your work with Dr Huth.’ Douglas noted that this was not strictly a compliment.

‘I trust that all is well in London,’ he said.

‘Quite well!’ said Kellerman cheerfully. ‘My dear fellow, we expected the murder rate to double the moment you left us – but, not yet!’

‘Perhaps martial law has discouraged the criminals,’ said Douglas lightly, watching Kellerman for any reaction. ‘We were stopped at an Army checkpoint on the way here,’ he continued. ‘But they waved us through. Back in February they would have insisted on checking our papers – have they begun to see sense?’

Kellerman chuckled. ‘The Army! Whatever the inconvenience, they must be allowed to have their way sometimes. One must co-operate, you see – let them think that they are winning.’

‘And how does one achieve that, sir?’ said Douglas. Thus far, he was inclined to believe that the rumours were true, and Kellerman was not showing the animosity towards the Army that Himmler expected of him.

‘Oh, I have my ways.’ Kellerman contrived to look mysterious. He added, ‘Of course, I do hear more and more, people wondering if it wasn’t your investigation with Dr Huth that has allowed this martial law to continue.’

‘Really, sir? How so?’

‘Well, the discovery of that plot, with the clear indication of American involvement – a cause for concern! I am sure it created great consternation at Army High Command, and shortly afterwards, of course, they persuaded the Führer to extend the order.’ Kellerman spread his hands wide, palms upwards, as though offering Douglas absolution. ‘An unfortunate side effect of a most delicate investigation.’ He sighed. ‘But of course, I am no longer your commanding officer. I cannot unburden myself to you as I did once.’

‘No sir, of course not.’ Douglas wondered how many of these theories were being put about by Kellerman himself to try and explain away his own failures.

‘I shall watch your progress with interest, though, Archer.’ There was something new in Kellerman’s voice, a note of intent. 

Douglas realised that he had been naïve. Kellerman and Huth’s mutual animosity could have spanned whole oceans – it certainly had no difficulty stretching partway across a continent. He would never be safe, not until the man was in his grave, or at least ignominiously dismissed from his job. This was exactly what Huth had wanted: a talented new acolyte with knowledge of Kellerman and a vested interest in his destruction. Douglas wondered how long it would be before he was assigned to the investigation into his financial dealings.

‘And you are here to collect young Douglas?’ Kellerman was saying.

‘Yes,’ said Douglas, immediately wary.

‘He will thrive in Germany.’ Kellerman smiled. ‘Boys like him are exactly what we need. I shall follow his progress with interest too.’

Inwardly, Douglas recoiled at the thought. ‘You are most kind, General,’ he said. 

Kellerman stared off towards his angling trophies on the wall with a mild, confounded look on his face, like a man who enters a room and then forgets why he came in. ‘Ah, I recall,’ he said. ‘There was one more thing, before you go.’ He looked back across the desk, his small, blue eyes suddenly alight with malice. ‘A message for the Standartenführer.’

Douglas had met some terrifying specimens in Berlin, but none of them had been as frightening as Kellerman at this moment, all his hatred temporarily directed at one target. Huth was dismissive of him, claiming that he had reached his position only by sycophancy, but now Douglas saw that he underestimated the man. Kellerman had other qualities too, and they were all the more dangerous because he hid them well.

‘You may tell Dr Huth,’ said Kellerman, ‘that I have found his family records. And they make interesting reading. That will be all, Obersturmführer.’


	7. Chapter 7

Douglas cursed his luck when he saw the lit window in the house in Monmouth Street. He had said they should not wait up for him, and he had hoped that they would listen.

He reached into his pocket and found the key, turning it over and over in his hand. All those weeks ago, he had left for Berlin in such a hurry that he had taken it with him. It would have allowed him to enter of his own accord, go to bed, and deal with everything tomorrow. He had planned to take Douggie to the park – for it did not matter now if he missed a morning of school – and explain to him.

He did not know if he could face them this evening, and yet where else was he supposed to go? He got out of the car. ‘Shall I wait, sir?’ said the driver.

‘No, no need.’ But as Douglas approached the door, hearing the car depart behind him, the idea of retreat became more and more tempting. He pictured himself, if they should catch sight of him before he let himself in: a shadow looming behind the glass, exactly what he had always feared would befall this small, fragile household. Now he himself had come to embody his own private terror, a stranger appearing at night to escort someone away.

He should have taken off his uniform, he told himself angrily – turning up here wearing it was the sort of thing that Huth would have done. He could have got changed back at the Yard. But his unplanned interview with Kellerman had lost him time, and he had been so desperate just to sleep under the same roof as his son, to know that he was safe.

He removed his cap – not that this was going to help him look instantly more familiar. He had been obliged to visit the barber a few weeks ago, and the result was unmistakeably German. Huth had laughed when he first saw him, saying sardonically, ‘Suits you, Archer.’

Douglas chose to view it as a favour intended to help him blend in, the same as the frequent prompts and hints provided subtly by his fellow officers – and less subtly by Huth. Apart from those who were openly hostile, of whom there were several, it was hard to tell whether his colleagues resented his presence or just wanted him to assimilate as quickly as possible, willingly or by coercion. He was near certain, for example, that Huth considered it a kindness rather than a violation to have dug up all the necessary genealogical information pre-emptively during his last trip to London, so there could be no doubt that Douglas met the requirements. Then again, he might have wanted to prevent Douglas from trying to refuse his offer by fabricating an undesirable ancestor.

Douglas entered and shut the door behind him before he called, ‘Hello?’ He realised that he even sounded unlike himself – strangulated by nervousness.

There was the murmur of voices, and then his son stepped into the hall.

‘Douggie!’ Douglas felt light-headed with relief. But he saw that Douggie looked puzzled, almost uncomprehending. He hung back, studying the boy. He had grown, but otherwise he looked no different – not sick from worry or thin from undernourishment. Yes, Douggie looked exactly the same, thought Douglas. Whereas he, his father…

‘Dad!’ Douggie’s embrace was sudden and fierce. He buried his face in his father’s overcoat, arms clasped tightly around him, as if to make certain that he was real. Douglas stroked his hair.

‘Come on.’ Douggie took his hand and led him forward into the room.

Bob was at the table, bright-eyed yet beginning to droop, like all children allowed to stay up late. His eyes widened upon seeing Douglas. Mrs Sheenan gave him only the merest glance, and busied herself at the stove. Douglas recognised all the signs. This was what she had feared, but she had dared believe it might not be true. Suspicions confirmed; hopes dashed.

‘Hello,’ said Douglas again. He was glad of Douggie holding onto his hand; without it, he might have bolted back out of the house, into the night.

‘You weren’t in America?’ said Bob, who had long since learned to recognise a German uniform when he saw one. His voice was full of faintly accusatory disappointment.

‘No. In Germany.’

‘I wasn’t allowed to tell you, Bob,’ said Douggie, standing close to his father and speaking, Douglas realised to his dismay, with evident pride.

Bob quickly picked up his excitement. ‘Were you on a mission? Working undercover?’

‘Well, I suppose –’

‘Now, Bob, we’re all tired. Let Mr Archer eat.’ Still, Mrs Sheenan had barely looked at Douglas. ‘Please sit down, Mr Archer,’ she said formally, and indicated his usual chair.

‘Let me take your coat, Dad.’

Douglas allowed his son to help him off with his overcoat and drape it over the back of his seat. Mrs Sheenan served the food in silence, and Bob was silent now too. He had reverted to his earlier circumspection, his eyes returning again and again to the SS collar patches at Douglas’s throat. ‘Why did they give you a uniform?’ he said eventually.

‘You know Mr Archer can’t answer a lot of questions about his work,’ said the boy’s mother. Under the circumstances her voice was remarkably placid.

Once the boys had been put to bed, Douglas sat at the table again, not knowing where to place himself. He felt as though he – or everything that he had brought into the house with him – had expanded to fill the room, forcing Mrs Sheenan to tiptoe around its periphery.

‘You’ll sleep in your old room, of course, Mr Archer.’

‘Thank you.’ Douglas recognised the invitation to retire to bed and leave her in peace. Only as he got up did he remember what he had brought, and reach into his coat pocket.

Mrs Sheenan looked at the small pile of coupons that he had placed on the table. ‘No. No, Mr Archer, I can’t take those.’

‘But Mrs Sheenan, you’ve been looking after him all on your own, for weeks. I… I don’t know what I would have done…’

‘But how would I use them all?’ she insisted. ‘Without people thinking I was… well, I’m sure you know what I mean. Besides, it’ll just be me and Bob now.’ Very softly, she began to cry.

Douglas stared at her, too numbed by the events of the day to react. He remembered that he had known how to comfort people, once, in what seemed like the distant past. He was out of practice. He reached out a hand, only for her to raise one of her own in protest.

‘It’s not for us,’ she said, gradually regaining her composure. ‘It’s you I’m upset for, Mr Archer. You and your boy.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sheenan,’ said Douglas. After all, what else could he say? But as his eyes strayed the room and he noticed afresh how small and shabby it was, and how worn and patched the clothes of its owner, he wondered whether he really was sorry that Douggie would not be growing up under such conditions.

‘Well, I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn.’ Tears overcome, she turned away and began to tidy things into cupboards. She looked over her shoulder at Douglas, and her eyes were as unfriendly as they had been when he first entered the room. ‘And I’ve been calling you “Mr Archer” – how silly of me. I suppose you go by something else now.’

 

The next morning, Douglas took his son to Parliament Hill. Much of Hampstead Heath was still out of bounds – reserved for the Army to practise their manoeuvres or cordoned off to prevent illicit meetings; but back in the autumn they had made this small part accessible, for those Londoners who could stomach looking out over the occupied city.

They had come here sometimes as a family. When Douggie was small, Douglas had lifted him up to sit on his shoulders to let him see the view; when the boy grew older he had begged to be allowed to climb trees, and occasionally got his way. Even on this grey morning, in a wind too chill for April and too blustery for comfort, he was enjoying himself, running back and forth ahead of his father. Despite everything, he was a happy child. Douglas hoped that it would make things easier for him.

Sitting on one of the benches was an elderly man with a dog, a beautiful Irish setter that no doubt ate expensively. The owner must have been wealthy, once. Douggie went over to befriend the animal, and Douglas turned away, looking off towards the trees.

His wife was suddenly very close here, and Douglas’s memories were so intense that he almost regretted coming back to this place. In the last two months his life had been overturned so completely that at times he had forgotten Jill; forgotten, _in extremis,_ that he had ever been married. That was what the SS aimed for: the inculcation of such loyalty to one’s comrades and such indifference towards outsiders that one began to believe there had never been anything else, no life worth living outside their aegis.

But it was not just that. Everything that had happened since November had driven Douglas further and further from his wife’s memory. He knew with utter certainty that she would not have agreed with his decision – but what did she understand of this new reality? She belonged entirely to his old life, for she had taken it with her when she died. She had never drawn breath in the world that he must navigate now.

The man and his dog had moved on, and Douggie was staring after them, watching the animal gambol and snap in the fierce breeze. Douglas was struck by the sudden loneliness of his posture. He went over to his son, and they sat on the bench.

‘Did he tell you the dog’s name, Douggie?’

‘Ferdinand. He was friendly.’ The cuffs of Douggie’s coat were damp where the dog had licked him. Perhaps, thought Douglas, he ought to promise Douggie a dog once they were in Berlin. It was an idiotic notion, but no other way of broaching the topic presented itself. His son sat there, the only thing in the world that he cared about, and yet the conversation about to commence frightened Douglas more than anything he had endured over the past months.

‘I argued with Bob,’ said the boy suddenly, in the tone of someone confessing. ‘He said that you were in the SS, but _I_ said that you’re not, and that it was only a disguise. From your mission.’ He looked up at his father.

Finally breaking the long silence that followed, Douglas heard himself say, ‘You might have to apologise to Bob.’

‘Oh.’ Douggie digested this information. Then he said, ‘But why?’

‘They wanted me to go and work for them, in Berlin.’

Silence again, that stretched out between them, broken only by the noise of the wind, the barking of the dog somewhere in the distance. ‘Am I coming too?’ said Douggie.

‘Of course! Douggie, I’d never leave you here without me!’ But instead of looking relieved, as Douglas had hoped, his son seemed pensive.

He looked back out over the pockmarked city, the missing and damaged landmarks that drew the eye, each one a tiny stab in the heart. But children were lucky – they did not notice these things so much. They played hide and seek in bombed-out buildings and gaped at the weapons and uniforms of occupying soldiers. Only when Douggie grew to adulthood might he realise how much had been lost. Douglas could not imagine how long it would be before there were resources spare to restore London’s former glories. And even then, what sort of country would the buildings be reborn into? That was what the Nazis had achieved: the creation of a world where there was no act of good that did not come at the expense of someone else. There could be no redemption, not for the city that had been his home, not for his new masters in Berlin, and not for Douglas himself.

‘I’ll miss Bob, and Mrs Sheenan. And Harry.’

‘I’ll miss them too,’ said Douglas.

Douggie looked at his father’s face, just for a moment, and then looked away. It was as though he had read there everything that was irrevocable and could not be argued against. ‘When… when do we have to leave?’

‘The flight is on Tuesday,’ said Douglas. Seeing his son slumped in resignation, battling tears, he had to remind himself that this was only the first and smallest of many cruelties that he would be asked to perform, and perhaps the only one that was for a greater good. Gently, he took Douggie’s shoulders, turning the boy around to face him. ‘Douggie, it will be all right. And we’ll be together. That’s the most important thing.’

In a country where Oskar Huth was his only friend, it would have to be. Douglas took his son by the hand, and together they walked on across the heath.


	8. Chapter 8

By Tuesday afternoon, Douglas had repaired to his office for the last time to compile the documents that he had obtained for Huth. Reports on civilian morale; accounts of Resistance attacks on SS personnel; lists of the numbers and sites of executions in the South East. Douglas was sure that it was all in service of some grand plan, but he had no strong desire to know what it was. He was anxious to get back to Berlin, though. He had spent the entire time expecting some kind of intervention from Kellerman, especially while he had been collecting the more sensitive information.

Of course, even once he had escaped London he would have to work out what to tell Huth about that conversation on his first day. He hoped to God that Kellerman was only bluffing about Huth’s family records. Surely any officer on Himmler’s personal staff had been thoroughly vetted for unsuitable connections? And Huth was not a man to let himself be caught out in such an obvious way. But then again, Huth was arrogant, often reckless. His family came from Germany’s northern border; their former home in Schleswig had been part of Denmark since the end of the first war. Their records might be outside Germany, or else conveniently lost. Could he have gambled on the chance that some secret would go undiscovered?

Douglas looked at his wristwatch. He knew that he was putting it off: his last piece of unfinished business before his return to Berlin. He could not afford to waste any more time. Forcing himself to his feet, he made his way downstairs.

Huth had been right about Harry – he was at a loose end these days. When Douglas entered the office he was sitting at his desk, slightly slumped, not even pretending to do any work. There had never been such defeat in his posture before. And he was older, suddenly, visibly so. He said nothing as Douglas walked over, just stared at him with sullen mutiny in his eyes.

Douglas placed a sheaf of paper on the desk: the identity cards and forms that would allow Harry, newly retired, to pass into the unoccupied zone, and his wife with him. The uppermost sheet bore Huth’s now familiar hasty signature.

‘From the Standartenführer,’ said Douglas. He did not expect thanks, although he was certain Harry would be only too pleased to know that he would never hear from Huth again after this. When Harry did not reach to take the papers, he pressed his fingertips to the pile and pushed it closer to him across the surface of the desk. He retracted his hand. Still, Harry did not speak. ‘Well, good luck,’ said Douglas, seeking to bring a close to this awful meeting. This, it seemed, was how things were destined to end between them.

‘You’re not going to say we should go for one last drink, then?’ Finally Harry stirred himself, sitting up straighter in his chair. ‘Or don’t you have time?’

‘No, no, I have time,’ said Douglas, astounded that Harry had even suggested it. ‘But I’m…’

Harry snorted. ‘Wearing your uniform? Aren’t you bloody always – he’s made a new man of you. I suppose you’ve got other clothes?’

‘I have other clothes,’ said Douglas stiffly.

‘Well come on then, get changed.’

The Red Lion was the same as ever, except that Douglas did not recognise the barman. He had not been into this pub since November – maybe the previous publican had been swept up in the crackdown. Douglas bought the drinks and went to join Harry in the quietest corner that he had been able to find. The beer was disgusting – Douglas had forgotten. He took care not to wince, but still he caught Harry staring at him. He dipped his head, angry with himself for feeling so embarrassed. ‘Why don’t you say what you want to say, Harry?’

Harry actually laughed – not something that Douglas had expected. ‘Tell you what you want to hear, don’t you mean? But I don’t know what that is, Doug. Do you want me to say I understand why you did it? Or do you want me to tell you that you should be ashamed of yourself, now, when it’s too damned late to do anything about it?’

‘Say whatever you like.’

Harry surveyed him again with a hint of his old friendly mockery. ‘Well, I can’t say that I’m proud of you, walking around looking like that. But I am pleased for you.’

‘Don’t be,’ said Douglas bitterly.

‘Huth treating you all right, is he? Given you everything he promised? Not working you too hard?’ Harry saw Douglas’s look of incredulity and laughed again. ‘No, that one’s too much to hope for. But no-one’s tried to assassinate you since you got to Berlin, have they?’

‘No-one’s professed an interest in murdering me yet, no.’

‘Well then, that’s all I wanted.’ Harry sipped his beer.

‘You told me you wanted me gone!’ blurted Douglas. Being back at the Yard, and sitting here now in this familiar place, had brought it all back to him. They might still have patched things up, him and Harry; they might even have been sitting here at this very moment, working together again, still on the same side. That could never happen now. They were not even citizens of the same country any more.

Harry put down his glass. ‘I wanted you _safe_. But, stubborn bastard that you are, if I’d said I was worried about you, it would only have made you stay.’

Douglas said slowly, ‘You’re telling me that you didn’t mean what you said?’

‘At first I didn’t understand how you could have done it,’ said Harry. ‘Given away Mayhew and the others. I was furious with you, Douglas. After I was released, I used to lie awake at night and wonder how you could have betrayed your own countrymen. That wasn’t the man I knew, and I couldn’t forgive you for it. In the end I asked Huth.’

‘You asked _Huth?’_

‘He was getting ready to leave – giving me a final talking-to before he went. By that point I thought I didn’t care what he did to me and, well, I’d…’ Harry’s face reddened.

‘You’d been in here at lunchtime, perhaps?’ said Douglas.

‘So I got right in his face, shouted at him, asked him what he’d done to make you tell. But he just laughed. It made me want to punch him even more than I already did. He told me you’d done it on account of Douggie, said it like I was an idiot for not having realised.’ Harry sighed deeply. ‘And I was, Doug. I thought, wouldn’t I have done the same, to protect Douggie, to protect you? And I couldn’t blame you any more, not after that.’

‘You might have told me,’ said Douglas quietly.

‘I wanted to,’ said Harry. ‘Every time you were out of the office for too long, I started to think they’d got you, for good this time, and I swore that if you’d only come back then I’d tell you.’ He raised his glass and drank reflexively, losing himself in the action. ‘But I never knew how to start...’

‘I’m glad you got around to telling me before I left the country again,’ said Douglas, trying to leaven the conversation.

But Harry was having none of this. ‘That day you were attacked outside the Yard – when I heard them yelling, and then the shots, I thought that was it. I was trying to work out how I’d break it to Douggie, when you walked in the door. But after that, seeing how determined they were, I – started to think I’d lost you, for certain. It was just a matter of how long you had left.’

Douglas remembered the blank expression on Harry’s face that day. At the time, mired in his own self-loathing, he had believed that his partner did not care about the assault. 

Harry said, ‘And then the next week, Huth turned up.’ He looked at Douglas with an expression midway between a smile and a grimace. ‘You’ve got yourself a fan there.’

‘He has an odd way of showing it.’

‘He more or less told me he was taking you, like you were a piece of furniture. Said that you belonged with him, not with a “buffoon like Kellerman” and certainly not looking after me in my dotage.’ Harry looked across the table. ‘The bastard’s so damned sure of himself… but it seemed like the best chance you had. I agreed that I’d try and persuade you.’

‘I wish we hadn’t listened to him, Harry.’ Douglas thought of all that he had given up, all that he had endured. Now it turned out that Harry had practically made the decision for him. ‘Was this honestly what you wanted?’ he said, surprising himself with a sudden flash of anger.

‘Oh, no. Seeing you wearing that uniform, it – it makes me feel sick.’ Harry stopped talking; swallowed, forced himself to continue. ‘But how I feel isn’t important. It’s done, Douglas. You and your boy will be safe now.’

‘I’m worried about him,’ said Douglas. He realised that Harry was the last person that he could unburden himself to. There would be no-one to confide in back in Berlin. ‘I’m worried that he’ll hate it – that he’ll hate me for taking him there.’

‘He’s young,’ said Harry. ‘Don’t fret about him. He’ll get used to it.’

‘I’m worried about that too.’

Harry set down his empty glass and rested his elbows on the table. Douglas felt very young, all of a sudden, as though he were twenty-two again and newly assigned to work with Harry. He had forgotten how much their relationship had shifted over the years.

‘You can’t worry about everything,’ said Harry. ‘You’ll drive yourself mad, and you’ve got Huth to do that for you already. You’re a good man, Douglas, don’t forget that. Set Douggie the best example you can, just as you’ve always done, and he’ll be alright.’

‘Thank you, Harry,’ said Douglas quietly.

Harry nodded at Douglas’s watch. ‘Time to be getting along. Don’t want to be late.’

‘Come and say goodbye to him?’ said Douglas. Harry nodded, and they got up to leave.

‘Harry, it won’t be for the last time.’ Douglas felt compelled to say it here, not later in front of Mrs Sheenan or in the car with the driver listening. ‘We’ll see each other again, you and I, and Douggie.’

‘You think you’ll be holidaying in Cumbria in a few years’ time, do you?’ Harry’s wry smile clearly cost him an effort to produce.

‘I mean it, Harry.’

‘Well, perhaps.’ Harry clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ve proven me wrong before.’

 

Douggie fell asleep on the plane. Douglas looked down at his son and found himself hoping fervently that he would not wake until they had landed. It seemed kinder, somehow.

Douglas had waited by the kitchen door, watching Douggie say goodbye to Mrs Sheenan, to Bob and to Harry. He felt like a ghost, forced to observe without participating; and he knew that Mrs Sheenan wanted nothing more than to exorcise him, to rid the house of his presence entirely. It stung Douglas even to think of the expression on her face when he had tried to thank her for all she had done; but he consoled himself that she would be in less danger now that he had left for good.

Douggie’s evident misery had turned to excitement when they reached the airport, and he had been too distracted to notice the puzzled expressions of the immigration officials when they discovered that an SD officer was the father of an English child. Thankfully, Douglas’s papers – aided by his decision to travel in uniform – had got them through without too many questions.

At least on the plane there was a respite from scrutiny. An expensively-dressed middle-aged woman – the wife of some Party official, if Douglas was any judge – looked at the sleeping Douggie with a motherly air, and smiled at Douglas. Reminding himself how few people made overtures of friendship to him anymore, he managed to smile back.

They were close to landing before Douggie awoke. The descent was bumpy, and Douglas held his hand until the plane came to a halt. When the time came to disembark, he found it difficult to let it go. He kept his arm around his son’s shoulders all through the terminal building, through the checkpoints and corridors, until they emerged into the arrivals hall.

Huth’s driver was waiting for them. Douglas felt his stomach contract as Douggie stared up at the man. He wished that Huth had not made this gesture, but he was too tired not to feel some relief. He just wanted to get his son home. He only hoped that he did not develop too great an obsession with the car.

The driver took their suitcases, politely but firmly, and when they reached the vehicle he opened the door for Douglas and his son to get in. And then they were whisked away, speeding into the gathering dusk of Berlin.


	9. Chapter 9

May 1942

Two weeks to the day after Douglas returned from London – indeed, curiously as though he had timed it – Huth asked after Douglas’s son. ‘And how is Douggie settling in?’ he said casually, just as he was about to commence a briefing.

Douglas hesitated before replying. Douggie was the only reason that he was here at all, and he could not very well ask Huth not to speak about him. He would have to get used to it. ‘He’s finding his feet,’ he said.

‘How’s his German?’

‘Still some way off being fluent,’ said Douglas.

Huth either failed to notice his sarcasm or chose to ignore it. ‘But with you helping him, he will learn. What about the housekeeper, he likes her?’

‘She’s quite satisfactory, thank you.’

‘Good. She will need to look after him for a couple of days.’

Douglas tried not to let his feelings show on his face. Poor little Douggie, first abandoned by his father for two months and now brought to an unfamiliar country, did not deserve to be left with a virtual stranger. But here, no-one ever really got what they deserved. ‘I am sure she will be able to,’ he said.

Huth nodded, and looked at the notes on the table in front of him. ‘Tell me, do you remember a man named Simon Farrow?’

‘No,’ said Douglas. Huth’s eyes held a hint of displeasure, and for a moment he doubted himself. ‘No, I don’t know the name,’ he said with more certainty.

‘Well you should – he was a member of your college boat club. You rowed in the same boat as him for a time.’ Huth’s faint expression of derision became a smirk. ‘I see. Only University rowers were worthy of your interest, is that it, Archer?’

‘It could only have been for a couple of terms.’ Douglas tried not to sound defensive. 

‘You’re right. And Farrow was older than you – a graduate student. After completing his thesis, Dr Farrow went on to continue his career in Heidelberg.’

‘I see,’ said Douglas, realising where this was leading. With Springer gone, Huth was determined to gain the support of as many physicists as he could, to prove that the SS had expertise the Army lacked. He had recently shared with Douglas his approximate and rather scathing estimate that about ten extra scientists would be worth one of Springer.

‘Dr Farrow works at Heidelberg still,’ said Huth. Douglas found this surprising. Even before the outbreak of war, many foreign academics had abandoned German universities as the stranglehold of the Nazis tightened. Huth smiled and shook his head. ‘He did all he could to retain his position,’ he said. ‘Joined the Party, applied for German citizenship, and was eventually awarded it. And he was no less enthusiastic than anyone else in denouncing his Jewish colleagues.’

On this point Douglas remained silent; and it became clear that Huth himself was going to express neither praise nor censure for Farrow’s actions.

‘Nonetheless, an interesting thing about Dr Farrow…’ Like someone performing a card trick, Huth extracted two files and spun them around for Douglas to see. They were slim folders, only a few pages. Each had a photograph of its subject on the front. ‘Shortly before the war, Farrow contrived to send two of his students to America. They were only partway through their doctorates – there was no good reason for it. And no, there were no racial or political grounds for their needing to leave.’

‘Avoiding conscription?’ said Douglas, looking at the photos of the two young men and envying them. ‘Perhaps he guessed that war was inevitable.’

‘They would certainly have been exempted from service and allowed to continue their research,’ said Huth. ‘So why do it, unless to send that research away from Germany? That’s what he needs to explain to us.’ He pushed his chair back slightly and looked across the room, as though he had strained his eyes. ‘Dr Farrow has been a great disappointment,’ he said. ‘He had corresponded with Springer for some months – it seemed that he was prepared to discuss matters purely of science, but not his own work.’ He glanced at Douglas. ‘Springer tolerated it. I believe he had a soft spot for the man, or hoped that he would win him around.’

Douglas nodded, although he could not really imagine the rigid and unsmiling Springer having a soft spot for anyone, with the possible exception of Huth.

‘You’d think that someone sensible enough to secure his career by joining the Party would be more prepared to help. But Dr Farrow is disinclined to tell me anything about his research, or that of the students he mysteriously sent away.’

‘So we’re going to speak with him in person?’

‘Yes. I want you to talk to him.’

‘Why?’ said Douglas. ‘So I can tell him that he should join the SS as well?’ It was difficult not to feel manipulated. All Huth wanted was to convince everyone that Douglas was as German as the rest of them – except, it seemed, when it suited him to have a friendly Englishman on hand.

‘There’s no need for any of that,’ said Huth. ‘I’m not stupid – I’m not going to waste any more time asking him to join an organisation he obviously dislikes. But I’m not interested in his moral quandaries, or his feelings about Britain or Germany or anywhere else, any more than I’m interested in yours.’

Douglas said nothing. It was pointless to claim that he had no such misgivings. Besides, Huth had just admitted that he did not care about Farrow’s political views, when it was supposed to be his job to care about them obsessively. Perhaps he should take that as a sign of trust.

‘All Dr Farrow needs to do is recognise the reality of his situation. And that means cooperating with us. That’s what I want you to tell him.’

‘What if that’s still not enough?’ said Douglas. ‘What if he won’t tell me anything either?’

‘Then we have grounds for his arrest,’ said Huth carelessly.

‘What for?’

Huth was silent for a few moments. It was clear that he had forgotten precisely what misdemeanour was to be used against Dr Farrow, and had probably stopped caring the second that the evidence had been verified. ‘He had an affair with a student,’ he said at last. ‘She was later found to be active in a university resistance movement.’

Almost every day – several times a day if he was unlucky – Douglas heard something that violated all his instincts as a policeman. He was learning to suppress his protests, but he could not manage it every time. ‘Is that really grounds for his arrest?’

‘Archer…’ Huth got up from the table and stepped back towards his desk. ‘Our professional relationship is going to be regrettably short if I have to keep reminding you where you work now.’ His voice was quite pleasant, which made it all the more obvious that he meant it in earnest. ‘If we need to question him, then there are grounds for his arrest.’

‘Of course,’ said Douglas. There was little to be achieved by annoying Huth, especially if they had to travel across the country together.

Huth raised an eyebrow, looking almost disappointed that Douglas had capitulated so readily. ‘Next week. One of the secretaries will give you the details.’

Turning to go, Douglas wondered if Huth had let their official reason for arresting Dr Farrow slip from his mind already, to be replaced with more important information.

 

Douglas knew that he ought to have found Heidelberg charming. It was a handsome town, sprawled along the river, with the castle perched on the slopes just above. From certain angles, the sandstone ruins appeared suspended impossibly a mere couple of inches above the rooftops. The sun was shining, and the wooded hills flanking the town were verdant. It was a far cry from London, or even Berlin.

Yet there was an odd energy about the place – the usual liveliness of a university town unnaturally harnessed and directed. One did not have to look far to see it. The celebrations to mark the Führer’s birthday had taken place a few weeks ago, and according to the posters still flapping on the walls here and there it had been quite an occasion, complete with the usual torchlit rally and endless speeches.

It occurred to Douglas that he should not have been surprised. The Nazis set out to control every aspect of life in the Reich, and they had had nearly ten years to accomplish it. In London he had witnessed only the earliest stages, but here he was seeing the results: everything that a university was not supposed to be. Back in England he had long since ceased reading any news reports of the changes that the Nazis were making at Oxford and Cambridge. There had been enough to depress him closer to home.

He and Huth parted company near the university buildings. Both men were wearing civilian clothes, although Huth had his briefcase with him, and his usual air of purpose. He had not told Douglas how he planned to spend the afternoon, but Douglas guessed that he would be speaking with informants amongst the students. There was always political dissent to be weeded out, however hard the state tried to eradicate it.

‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy reacquainting yourself with Dr Farrow,’ said Huth. ‘Let’s see if he remembers you.’ He was more than usually flippant today, and as they walked through the town Douglas could have sworn that he had been smiling for no good reason at all. Huth, at least, seemed to be charmed by Heidelberg.

‘I hope that your afternoon is successful too, Standartenführer.’ A young man wearing the uniform of the student wing of the Party walked past, and Douglas could not resist saying, ‘One of your interviewees?’

Judging from Huth’s expression, he thought Douglas a fool, but had decided to find it entertaining. ‘Good God, no. You really don’t have the first idea how we do things, do you Archer?’

‘I’m beginning to learn.’

‘Admirable. We’ll meet where we agreed.’

Making his way to Dr Farrow’s departmental building, Douglas decided that he was happiest not knowing the details of all Huth’s investigations. And there was plenty that the Standartenführer did not share with him. Huth had pressed so hard for details of the conversation with Kellerman that Douglas found himself forced to repeat his comment about the family records verbatim. He had expected one of Huth’s rants about Kellerman, but none had been forthcoming. Huth had seemed startled, then visibly puzzled. Then he had laughed.

‘Total nonsense, like ninety percent of what that dimwit comes out with. Was that really all that he told you? Things in London must be worse than we thought if he wasn’t prepared to boast about his successes in your absence.’

Douglas had looked at Huth, scanning for some clue that he was lying. But the man’s eyes were not so much windows to his soul as barriers against the world, and there was rarely any way of telling what was happening behind them. He had not mentioned Kellerman since.

Farrow was not expecting Douglas, but the building’s porter had informed them that the doctor would be in his office at this hour, and was primed for his arrival. The SD had an idiosyncratic way of making appointments. Douglas was shown upstairs immediately.

He recognised Dr Farrow the moment that he entered the room, despite the passage of more than ten years. It was only the name that he had forgotten. Farrow was square of face and rangy of build; he had sat at position three in the boat – a couple of places behind Douglas – and had always seemed peculiarly ineffective for such a large man. Douglas remembered the sound of his heavy breathing during races – louder than everyone else’s, as though to underscore his efforts. He remembered too that he had never much liked Simon Farrow. He had looked down on Douglas for his relative youth; and when Douglas’s prowess had seen him progress rapidly to the university boat club, Farrow had behaved as though this was the act of a traitor to the college.

Dr Farrow recognised Douglas too. He stumbled gracelessly to his feet, patently confused over whether he should be speaking English or German, and at last said, ‘Douglas Archer!’ in a faintly Teutonic accent.

‘It’s a pleasure,’ said Douglas, answering in English and making the decision for them. His confidence was bolstered by the sight of the Party badge on Dr Farrow’s lapel. It helped to remember that Farrow was in no position to judge anyone for their moral compromise.

Farrow was still full of gentle amazement. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’ he said as they sat down, more out of curiosity than with any note of confrontation.

‘I believe you’ve been in correspondence with my boss,’ said Douglas. ‘SS-Standartenführer Dr Oskar Huth.’

‘Ah,’ said Farrow. After a long pause he said, ‘The last I heard, you were a famous detective back in London.’

‘Things change, don’t they?’ said Douglas, with a small nod towards Farrow’s Party badge. The other man looked discomfited.

‘My correspondence with Dr Huth has been limited,’ he said, immediately on the defensive, embarrassed even at the suggestion of having been in contact with an SS officer.

‘But you were in touch with Professor Springer before that?’

‘Our correspondence was personal, not work-related,’ said Dr Farrow. ‘Nothing official.’

Douglas remained silent for a few moments, just to let Farrow – whom he had caught in a lie – grow uncomfortable. ‘You discussed nuclear physics with Springer,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen your letters. Didn’t it occur to you that he had an interest in the exact nature of your research – and that of your former students? What we would like to know, Dr Farrow, is why you sent them away.’

Farrow gave him a blank smile. ‘It was nothing like what you’re thinking, I assure you. Hans Vogel and Michael Dahlke were both talented, and a great asset to the department. But they wanted the opportunity to travel. Who was I to deny them that?’

‘Then you won’t mind telling us what they were working on, before they took their research with them.’

‘You studied Law, didn’t you, Archer? And your superior did as well, I think?’ Farrow spoke above Douglas’s head into a far corner of the room. It was another deeply irritating habit of his that Douglas now remembered.

‘Yes, I studied Law.’

‘Well then, you’re not a scientist, so you wouldn’t understand. I can’t just go discussing my students’ research with anyone – there’s a need for confidentiality. Springer respected that.’ Farrow shifted his attention abruptly back to the desk in front of him. ‘He was a clever man. I was sorry to learn of his death.’

Douglas was beginning to have a grudging respect for Farrow. Even as a policeman in London, he had been used to interviewing people who showed a certain degree of deference. It was purely self-preservation. And of course, once the SS had arrived, nearly everyone had been positively desperate to assist in any investigation. It was rare to find someone quite so blasé as this man. But he pressed on. ‘Huth is clever too,’ he said. ‘And he has a particular interest in your research, Dr Farrow, as I’m sure he has explained to you. You must realise that you’d be wise to assist him?’

‘Archer…’ Now there was a small, infuriating smirk on Farrow’s face. ‘Can’t you see that it’s impossible for me to collaborate with the SS in the way you suggest? I’d lose all professional credibility.’

‘Come off it, Farrow!’ Douglas derived a small amount of satisfaction from the fact that the doctor visibly flinched. ‘The SS is full of scientists – you know that as well as I do. Entire departments, in some cases. So drop the pretence that conducting research on their behalf is unheard of. Is it your experience that anyone is permitted to be entirely apolitical in Germany? Even scientists?’

‘But _you_ would say that.’ Farrow had gathered himself, and was smirking again. He continued, ‘And the SS is full of _former_ scientists. Just like it’s full of former lawyers and former police officers. I assume he’s made you a member, yes? Then I’m sure you’re beginning to find out that when you join that particular organisation, you give up everything that you were before. In the eyes of the world, you’ll only ever be SS. Your Dr Huth tried extolling the benefits of membership to me, but I assure you he did not get far.’

‘I’m surprised to find that a man with a swastika on his lapel feels so strongly,’ said Douglas. ‘You’ve been wearing that a damn sight longer than I’ve worked for the SS.’

Farrow shrugged. Douglas remembered him as a student: his bluster, his perpetual scorn for the undergraduates, even when they were stronger and fitter than him. He suppressed his desire to try and wipe the smile off the man’s face. ‘Listen to me, Dr Farrow,’ he said, putting as much menace behind the words as possible, attempting to make Farrow see sense. ‘All that we want is your cooperation – it’s a reasonable thing to ask. Your attitude is disappointing. You must see that it will have consequences?’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Archer.’ Farrow got to his feet, forcing Douglas to stand up as well. ‘But I have my reasons. Was there anything else? Good day, then.’


	10. Chapter 10

Douglas had arranged to meet Huth at a restaurant near the main square. He looked up at the castle as he passed. It was a particularly magnificent sight at this hour – glowing redder than ever in the last of the day’s sunlight – but it did little to lift Douglas’s mood. He had been instructed to persuade Farrow, or otherwise to frighten him into complying, and he had failed to do either. The most he could hope for was that Huth would not be angry; but even then, he would still have to return tomorrow to arrest an innocent man.

Huth was sitting near the back of the restaurant, his head bent over a document that he was reading. He looked different here: more relaxed than Douglas had seen him in Berlin or in London. He even had a glass of beer on the table next to him – and it was rare indeed for Huth to mix business and pleasure. If one did not look too carefully, he could almost have been mistaken for one of the town’s academics.

The restaurant staff knew exactly what he was, though. Douglas spotted them in a loose huddle near the bar, eying Huth warily and probably flattering themselves that he had not noticed. When Douglas sat down opposite Huth, the waitress brought him beer and a menu with flustered and unnecessary speed.

Huth smiled at Douglas and reached down to put the notes that he had been reading into his briefcase. Douglas caught a glimpse of the handwriting: neat and almost childish, probably a woman’s. Huth was unfailingly egalitarian when choosing his informants.

‘How was our friend Dr Farrow?’

‘He remembered me,’ said Douglas, deciding to report the good news first.

‘Oh – splendid,’ said Huth, without the slightest pretence of interest. ‘But did he talk?’

‘I’m afraid he didn’t. He’s still not at all prepared to discuss his research.’

Huth was halfway out of his seat before Douglas said hastily, ‘I set a man to follow him when he returns home; another outside his house. He won’t be going anywhere.’

Huth relaxed again. ‘Good work.’ He picked up his menu. ‘Nothing else to be done tonight, then. Shall we order?’

It was not the reaction that Douglas had expected – Huth was not in the habit of handing out congratulations in the absence of any tangible success. But there he was, studying his menu with the same anticipatory interest that he had displayed when reading his notes. It occurred to Douglas that this was probably as close as he ever got to taking a holiday – the opportunity to carry on with his work in different surroundings. But sometimes, perhaps, even Huth wanted dinner more than he wanted to make an arrest.

Huth looked at Douglas’s menu, lying untouched on the table. ‘Are you going to sit there refusing to eat because I made you interview a physicist?’ he said mildly.

‘I’m disappointed that he was stubborn,’ said Douglas, trying to sound as though he was disappointed for Huth, not for Dr Farrow. He picked up the menu.

‘He’s stupid, for such a well-educated man,’ said Huth, turning a page. ‘He thinks we can’t do anything to persuade him. We’ll show him that he’s wrong, that’s all. We’ll go back there tomorrow and you’ll take him into custody.’ He put down the menu and smiled.

Douglas lost his appetite all over again. ‘Me?’ he said.

Huth closed his eyes and took on a look of almost saintly forbearance, as if to say, _Don’t make a scene, not here_. ‘Yes,’ he said, from between ever-so-slightly gritted teeth. Douglas laid down his menu, which Huth, thankfully, took to signal acquiescence.

The restaurant was getting busier, and by the time their food arrived there was no prospect of discussing the investigation – there were too many people nearby to overhear. Huth looked up from his food, and Douglas noted that he was capable of smirking even with his mouth full. He had the distinct feeling that Huth was enjoying the fact they had to dine together – probably deriving pleasure from his discomfort. Unless they were to sit in silence, allowing Huth the satisfaction of making him uncomfortable, he would have to attempt conversation.

‘You’ve been to Heidelberg before,’ he said.

‘A few times, some years ago, with Springer. Recruiting. It was one of his interests – finding new talent.’

It struck Douglas as especially hateful that the security services should recruit amongst students. They ought to be enjoying their freedom, not spying for the SD in the hope of one day joining their ranks. Even Huth, whatever he was now, had been allowed six or seven years at university untroubled by such dark forces.

Huth had been watching him. ‘Makes you nostalgic for your Oxford days, does it, Archer?’ he said.

Douglas said, ‘Only that I feel increasingly fortunate to have attended university in peacetime.’

‘This is peacetime,’ said Huth briskly.

‘But you understand what I mean?’

Just for a moment, something in Huth’s eyes made Douglas think that perhaps he did; but the Standartenführer returned to his food without answering. ‘You believe that universities shouldn’t have to exist in the real world, Archer,’ he said. ‘It comes of having been at Oxford. That’s the only reason the British have Oxford and Cambridge, you know – to preserve a little bit of the past, in microcosm. You live there for a few years, and then you spend the rest of your days wallowing in nostalgia, knowing that you can’t go back.’

Like so much of what Huth said, his assessment was harsh but not entirely inaccurate. ‘I’ve heard you speak fondly of Oxford before,’ said Douglas, wondering if Huth would now deny any such thing.

Huth’s smile was lopsided, as though half of him was indeed in denial. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy it. I said it was in the past.’

That was clear enough. Douglas found it difficult to imagine Huth as a student, or indeed as anything other than an SD officer. He still had no real idea who Huth was, underneath it all, but he had done an impressively thorough job of becoming exactly what he was expected to be.

Sometimes – usually after Huth had berated him for some failing – Douglas fell to sympathising with his father. Professor Huth’s more free-thinking colleagues in Berlin must have been quietly scandalised at the thought of his son joining the SS. And it was hard to imagine anyone feeling much paternal pride when, within a few short years, their offspring went from a life of quiet academia to presiding over executions.

Not for the first time, he was guiltily, painfully thankful that his own father was no longer alive to see what he had made of his career.

 

‘You’re in uniform,’ Huth told Douglas the next morning. ‘Behave like it. We’re here to make an arrest – do you think it accomplishes anything when you stand there looking embarrassed?’

Whatever magic the town had worked on Huth yesterday, its effects had rapidly worn off. Douglas squared his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Standartenführer.’

Huth was not satisfied. ‘The world hates a hypocrite, Archer,’ he said. ‘Don’t act as though you’ve never taken a man into custody to concentrate his thoughts.’ Then he was gone, bounding up the steps of the departmental building to the entrance and leaving the others to follow him. They had not brought many guards, just the two SS men who had accompanied them from Berlin and an impassive local officer, invited along as a courtesy. Huth did not expect much trouble from Farrow.

When they entered the lobby the porter stood up, thought better of it, and sat down again. ‘Can I assist you gentlemen at all?’ he said in a thin voice.

‘No, thank you,’ said Huth cheerfully. To Douglas he said, ‘You go up and get him. I’ll wait here.’ He indicated one of the SS men. ‘Take Lange.’

Douglas had rather imagined that Huth would want to be present at the moment Dr Farrow realised the consequences of non-compliance. He stood for a moment before responding, uncertain whether he was meant to say something.

‘I trust you to do it properly, Archer. Get going.’

Was it a test, thought Douglas as he climbed the stairs, or an opportunity? Was there any chance that he could warn Farrow, get him away? But it was no good – someone would be watching the building. In truth, this was no sort of test at all. He left Lange outside the office and entered without knocking.

The rest of the building was full of whispers, scurrying feet and hushed conversations behind closed doors as the news of the visitors got around. But here there was utter silence. Farrow looked up, his face betraying shock, then resignation.

Douglas spoke German this time. ‘Dr Simon Farrow, you’re under arrest.’ 

Farrow said, ‘On what grounds?’

‘There’ll be plenty of time to discuss that back in Berlin.’

Now, at last, Farrow looked afraid – almost twenty-four hours too late, Douglas thought wryly. But there was still fight left in him. ‘The head of my department won’t stand for this,’ he said. ‘You can’t possibly have any grounds to arrest me. He’ll demand my release.’

Douglas sighed. ‘I’m impressed that you think he would risk sacrificing his career for you, Dr Farrow. But whatever he chooses to do, in the meantime you need to come with me.’

Farrow looked around the office, and Douglas knew that he had admitted defeat. He could recognise when someone was going to come quietly. ‘I suppose your colonel’s waiting out there, wanting to talk to me,’ said Farrow, forcing a smile.

‘Standartenführer,’ said Douglas. ‘He doesn’t much care for “Colonel”.’

‘He was always polite in his letters. Mentioned Oxford – claimed to remember me from his time there. But I told him where he could stick his university reminiscences.’ Farrow gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have done that.’

Douglas focussed hard on Farrow’s Party badge, reminding himself of the doctor’s Jewish colleagues, all ejected from their offices and departments nearly a decade ago. ‘You were quick enough to support the regime when it served your own career,’ he said harshly.

‘That was for Johanna – for my wife,’ said Farrow. ‘So I could stay in Germany with her.’ He reached for a photograph on his desk and turned it towards Douglas. An orchard in springtime, blossom on the trees; and a young woman, smiling, holding in her arms a small girl.

‘Will you let her know where I am?’ said Farrow.

‘Yes.’

Farrow stepped out from behind his desk and stood in front of Douglas. ‘And do you think I’ll see them again?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Douglas. He paused, fearing that he might risk giving Farrow unrealistic hope. ‘Huth is a reasonable man,’ he said. ‘And you’re most use to him here, not in Berlin. When you speak to him, address him by his proper rank; mention Oxford. And tell him what he wants to know. That will give you the best chance of coming home, Dr Farrow.’

He gestured for Farrow to leave the room in front of him, but the man had had a sudden change of heart. He lingered beside his desk, as though planning to cling to it for dear life. Douglas stepped forward to take him by the arm, but Farrow edged away. ‘Archer, you’re English,’ he said, as though it was likely to make any difference.

Douglas did not doubt that Farrow would drag him down too if he could trick him into an act of disloyalty. ‘No more than you are,’ he said. He looked towards the door, ready to call in Lange.

‘No!’ said Farrow quietly, in English. ‘Please, there’s something you should know. The reason I don’t want to help them.’

‘You explained your reasons yesterday, at great length.’

Farrow was not to be deterred. ‘I’ve heard rumours,’ he said. ‘Other physicists I’ve spoken to. I’ve heard that if the SS did succeed in building this device – a prototype, say – they’d want to test it. And where do you think they might do that?’ He looked at Douglas, head slightly on one side, as though testing his students in the middle of a lecture.

Douglas stared at him. He realised what Farrow meant, and the thought was an appalling one – but it made a horrible sort of sense.

‘Why not?’ said Farrow. ‘Why not in the unoccupied zone? It would kill two birds with one stone for them, wouldn’t it? They could pull their troops out, and drop a bomb so far north that the after-effects never came within a hundred miles of any German. And I don’t think any Briton would keep fighting after that.’

‘That’s madness, Dr Farrow. The Germans aren’t going to destroy infrastructure in a country that they plan to occupy. These rumours are baseless.’

Farrow laughed. It was a hollow, despairing sound, but not without its power to mock. ‘Of course they wouldn’t, Archer. Of course the SS, of all people, would never consider doing something so appalling. And from the way you talk about him, I’m sure Dr Huth has only the best interests of the British people at heart.’ Farrow walked past Douglas, picked up his hat and coat, and opened the door. ‘Well, I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other. Shall we go?’


	11. Chapter 11

It was getting late when they arrived back in Berlin, and Huth insisted that Douglas go home. The successful arrest of Farrow seemed to have triggered one of his more intense attacks of human decency. ‘Go and see your son,’ he said, over Douglas’s murmured protests. More forcefully, he continued, ‘They’re not going to put Dr Farrow in any more comfortable a cell because you’re there to supervise, believe me.’ Douglas took him at his word and left.

He had spent much of the journey thinking about what Farrow had said, without reaching any conclusion. He wished that he could dismiss the idea as easily as he had back in the office; he wished he could believe that Huth would never sanction anything that was so likely to result in loss of life. But every time he convinced himself that Farrow had been talking nonsense, he remembered Huth’s feud with the Army, and the accolades he could expect should he secure defeat of the parts of Britain that were still holding out against occupation. 

But it helped to take his mind off everything, having Douggie to come home to. Douglas could not imagine returning to an empty apartment now, and certainly not after the last couple of days. He would have found himself going over and over it in his head: the conversation in Farrow’s office, the smell of his sweat when they got down to the lobby and met Huth waiting for them, the whispering from the floors above as the braver of the building’s occupants crept out to watch.

No, thought Douglas. All of that – the entirety of his working life, in fact – must be kept away from Douggie. And that way Douglas could also keep it away from himself: he could create a haven into which not so much as a thought of his job was allowed to intrude.

Douglas had barely entered and put down his case when he was met by the sound of Douggie darting from the living room into the hall.

‘Dad, look!’ His son was wearing a wide smile – and a Hitler Youth uniform.

Douglas felt himself jerk back, involuntarily, as though someone had struck him. He thought instantly of the posters and banners plastered all over Heidelberg, and for a second he wanted to scream in frustration. He was thankful that he was still wearing his cap – the visor left his eyes in shadow, and had probably spared Douggie his immediate reaction.

Nonetheless, the boy’s smile faded. He shuffled his feet, uncertain of himself. Douglas could not bear it. The poor child had lacked any real sense of certainty in his life ever since his mother had been killed, and in the past fortnight he had endured more than should ever have been asked of him. The very least that he deserved was his father’s affection.

Douglas removed his cap and hung it next to the door. ‘Did you pick it up today, Douggie?’ He extended his arms to give his son a hug, forcing himself to smile.

The housekeeper, Fräulein Taube, had come through from the kitchen. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Herr Archer,’ she said, looking fondly at Douggie.

‘Not at all. Thank you for taking care of him.’ To his son, Douglas said, ‘You look very smart, Douggie.’ The boy beamed again, his concerns forgotten.

It was typical, really. Douggie had shown no great interest in the new clothes that they had bought for him last weekend – but then they did not come with the opportunity to earn badges and, perhaps more importantly, the chance to fit in with the other boys at school. Besides, there was nothing to be done about it. Membership was compulsory, doubly so for the son of an SS officer.

Douglas said gently, ‘Go and take the uniform off now, Douggie, before we have dinner. You must always keep it clean and tidy.’ It was one of the very few things that had been impressed on him during his own training that he was prepared to share with his son. Douglas went to change for dinner too. He did not wear his uniform at home if he could possibly help it, and at this precise moment he had never been so eager to take it off.

He resolved to have a talk with Douggie, very soon. But what to say to him, how to explain that one need not be corrupted mind, body and soul just by association? Yes, march alongside them; sing their songs; smile and nod at their homilies – but don’t believe them. Don’t start to think like them; don’t become one of them. It was a lot for someone so young to understand. At least he was clever, although Douglas did not doubt that some of the cleverest children were also the ones who were most adept at spying on their parents.

Fräulein Taube was setting the table when Douglas entered the dining room. ‘Please, stay and eat with us,’ he said. Now that he had left her as Douggie’s sole carer for two days, he could not let her eat alone in the kitchen or go back to her parents still hungry.

‘Thank you very much, Herr Archer.’ She flushed slightly, but was obviously pleased. Gerda Taube was a slight, personable woman in her early twenties. She had the sophisticated manners of any nice young girl born and raised in Berlin, but managed to combine them skilfully with the wholesome air that the Nazis thought desirable in womankind. She gave every appearance that she could know no greater joy than taking care of Douggie when his father was out and cooking for them in the evening; when Douglas needed to work late she put Douggie to bed and sat up with her needlecraft, and when he got back she went home to her mother and father. 

‘The food is very tasty, Fräulein Taube,’ said Douggie in German, when they sat down to eat.

She smiled. ‘Why thank you, young man.’ The two of them shared a conspiratorial glance. Fräulein Taube said to Douglas, ‘You know, we spoke only German to each other all of yesterday evening. He’s learning so fast.’

‘Very good, Douggie.’ It occurred to Douglas that, for the sake of appearances, he should speak German to Douggie from now on when Fräulein Taube was in the house. And when he had his talk with Douggie, he must certainly wait until she had gone home. He liked Fräulein Taube, but one could not lose sight of the fact that she had been found for him by the SD. There was little doubt that she was reporting back to someone on his loyalties, hopefully to say that both he and his son were thoroughly invested in the continuing glory of the Nazi state.

It was probably quite an enviable position for her. Douglas certainly believed that her affection for Douggie was genuine. And when the boy was in bed and she was getting ready to go home, she sometimes liked to speak to Douglas, to practise her English. She wanted to visit London one day, she told him – presumably once some of the mess was cleared up.

He enjoyed their conversations, on the whole, although he would have enjoyed them more if he could have been sure that she did not have an ulterior motive. As Huth had reminded him with unconcealed amusement over dinner in Heidelberg, she would hardly be the first young woman to accept a job working for an SS officer in the hope of gifting some children to the Fatherland. The SS were encouraged to breed, and there he was, a handsome widower with a son in need of a new mother.

Every now and then, Huth pushed him too far. ‘If I told her about the fates of the last three women in my life, she’d want to keep well away, don’t you think?’ Douglas had said coolly.

Huth, to his credit and Douglas’s amazement, had instantly and permanently shut up about Fräulein Taube. He had changed the subject to Douggie’s schooling, and his own schooldays in Berlin. Douglas was tempted to exact his vengeance by asking why Huth had not seen fit to father any children of his own, since he had so many and such stringent ideas about their development. But baiting Huth was a foolish game, and one that was sure to end badly. He might take offence at his subordinate’s insolence; even worse, he might try to justify his personal life, or lack thereof. Anyway, there need be no great mystery as to why a man with no patience, no tenderness and no leisure time had not married and had a family.

As to Fräulein Taube, she seemed barely more than a child to Douglas. Sylvia had been young, but during the time that Douglas had known her the privations and bereavements of war had robbed her of whatever innocence she possessed. Fräulein Taube was different. Whatever Huth’s suspicions, Douglas had no interest in trying to forget his homesickness in the arms of the housekeeper.

And she was sensible. When Douglas invited her to stay another night rather than venture out into the streets so late, both of them knew that he meant nothing by it. She smiled, but insisted that her father would come and walk her home.

Douglas watched from the window as they ambled away, the slim young woman and her heavyset father, straight-backed despite his rolling gait. It was the result of an old war wound, his daughter had once said. And yet he had walked twenty minutes here, and would walk twenty minutes back to bring her home, and did so once or twice each week, in all weathers. He cared for his child deeply. Douglas might theoretically have had the power of the entire SD behind him, but he still would not have wanted to answer to Peter Taube if he had dared besmirch his daughter’s virtue.

 

Douglas went into the office early the next morning. He found his work piled up on his desk: internal documents, Boerner’s latest report from London, and fresh material on the nuclear project. Placed separately from the other papers were a few loose sheets.

Brandt was in the office too, far earlier than was usual for him. He said, ‘Your messages from Zürich – I put them there for you. And there was a phone call while you were away.’

Douglas looked at him sharply. This was correspondence concerning the Kellerman investigation – strictly off-limits to anyone barring him and Huth. Brandt ought to have known better than to do some impromptu tidying. But the man looked back at him with his usual stolid expression. The day had dawned unusually warm for the season, and already there was a faint sheen of sweat on Brandt’s forehead. Douglas could not take a superior officer to task for trying to help – and anyway, it would have brought him about as much satisfaction as kicking a spaniel. ‘Thank you,’ said Douglas as he sat down. He looked at the papers and wondered when, at latest, Huth would expect to see preliminary notes on the latest developments.

At nine thirty Douglas took the notes to Huth’s office, and found that he too was dealing with the results of two days away. He was bent over his desk, but he looked up as Douglas entered and nodded at him to leave the document with the others on a table at one side of the room.

‘You’re well rested?’ said Huth.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘So am I. I doubt that Farrow will be, though. We’ll speak with him this afternoon.’

‘Very good, Standartenführer,’ said Douglas, trying to sound resolute. The prospect of an interrogation made the work waiting for him back in his office comparatively enticing.

There was a knock at the door. Before Huth had the chance to react, it swung open, and someone entered the room. Huth straightened up and saluted with a reflexive speed that Douglas had not yet mastered. Luckily, the new arrival barely glanced at him.

The officer was in his early fifties; a large man, nearly as tall as Huth and perhaps one-and-a-half times as broad. He nudged the door shut behind him with one foot and took a few heavy steps into the room.

‘Oskar!’ The man’s voice was loud, his accent Bavarian. He looked around, taking in Huth, the office, the overcrowded desk. ‘The last time I saw you, you were only a Major!’ He approached Huth, extending a hand.

Huth lowered his arm, but did not relax. For all his saluting and heel-clicking, he was looking at the new man as though he had found him on the underside of his boot. ‘And the last time I saw you, Gruppenführer Mühlbach, you were stationed in Munich.’

‘And now I’m in Berlin.’ He began to wander the office with a proprietorial air. ‘And Springer’s dead.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘Nasty way to go. But you don’t need me to tell you that – you were there.’

Huth did not say anything, and his face was quite motionless as Mühlbach bent over the table holding Springer’s paperwork, made an expression of distaste, and moved away.

‘I arrived yesterday.’ Mühlbach was now examining the Pierro della Francesca reproduction on the wall. ‘Your man Brandt told me that you were off in Heidelberg, having yourself a little holiday.’ He turned to Huth.

‘We were there to interview a suspect,’ said Huth calmly. ‘We took him into custody and have brought him back with us for further questioning.’

‘Good man!’ said Mühlbach, with barely veiled sarcasm. ‘One of your physicists? Well, he’ll talk now that he’s here, if he’s one of your kind. You university men can’t stand anything that might spoil your manicures, can you? He won’t last long.’

‘Gruppenführer, this man is going to share some quite detailed and complex research with us.’ Huth’s voice was over-polite, as though speaking to someone who was not fully equipped to understand him. Douglas had a sudden, unexpected image of his commanding officer when he was a schoolboy, answering back to some teacher that he deemed beneath his contempt. ‘Damaging his writing hand would be counterproductive, wouldn’t you say?’

Mühlbach smiled without mirth. ‘I thought we’d toughened you up, Oskar.’ He had leant back, resting his ample weight against a small table already belaboured with files. Now he pushed himself up to a standing position and walked over to Douglas. ‘And this is your new Englishman.’

Douglas came to a position of attention. Mühlbach stood too near and studied him too carefully. His eyes were small and close-set, and Douglas judged that his nose had been broken once or perhaps twice; and yet he had the look about him of a man who had once been handsome, and still believed himself to be so despite the passage of years.

‘Very good!’ said Mühlbach. ‘You almost couldn’t tell. But I can tell.’ He looked over his shoulder at Huth. ‘You think you’re going to make him one of us, Oskar? You think you can train him?’

Huth’s face betrayed nothing but the small twitch of displeasure at one eyebrow that Douglas had noticed every time Mühlbach called him by his first name.

Mühlbach indicated Douglas with a disdainful jerk of his head. ‘You can’t train him. It’s not possible to train them – the English. They’re undisciplined. And yet so arrogant, for such a lazy people.’

Huth had picked up the phone, about to make a call. ‘Gruppenführer, I found a great deal of work outstanding when I returned to the office,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘Was there anything else that you wanted?’

‘Not a thing.’ Mühlbach moved towards the door and opened it. ‘We’ll talk more over the next few days. Heil Hitler.’ He shut the door on their replies.

Huth put the receiver back down, and gazed at his desk in silence, as though uncertain what he was meant to be doing. ‘Damn,’ he said absently. He reached for his cigarette case. ‘I’d heard rumours, but I hoped they weren’t true. I had been trying to persuade the Reichsführer to appoint someone else.’ He shot Douglas a look of irritation. ‘For God’s sake, sit down, Archer. He’s gone now.’

Douglas sat on the other side of the desk from Huth, who had lowered himself into his chair and was resting one elbow on a stack of paper. ‘He’s been appointed to the Reichsführer’s staff?’ said Douglas.

‘Springer’s replacement.’

‘He’s not your new boss, is he?’ asked Douglas, and immediately regretted it.

‘No,’ said Huth after a moment, clearly biting back his initial response. ‘And don’t worry about the “Englishman” business. I’m not aware that there’s anyone in the world Hans Mühlbach actually likes, so you’re in good company. He’s probably got an English bullet from the first war lodged somewhere uncomfortable, and that’s what makes him such a miserable bastard.’

‘That’s certainly one possible explanation.’

Huth said suddenly, ‘Your father died in the first war, didn’t he?’ A pause. ‘And you don’t blame me for that, do you?’

‘It’s hard to see how you could have been responsible – you must have been about eleven at the time.’

‘Exactly.’ Huth inhaled on his cigarette. ‘You’re sensible. And you’re a German citizen now.’

He probably meant well by saying it. But Dr Farrow was a German citizen too, thought Douglas – and look what had happened to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: in Nazi Germany, boys were required to join the DJ, the junior branch of the Hitler Youth, at the age of 10. Douggie is possibly meant to be slightly younger than this, so for the purposes of this AU perhaps membership has been extended to those as young as 8 or 9.


	12. Chapter 12

Douglas reproached himself when he saw the room in which they were going to conduct the interrogation. During the course of the afternoon he had worked himself into a state of dread thinking about what might greet him there. He had expected the stuff of nightmares, but it was really very ordinary, small and bare – little different from countless rooms in which he had interviewed suspects in the past. But it was impossible to forget that this building had lower and darker levels, home to the sort of chambers in which Gruppenführer Mühlbach would have questioned Dr Farrow.

Huth was fiddling with the lamp, adjusting it so that it cast a pool of light onto the table. He was slightly tense, like a sportsman checking his equipment immediately before the start of a race. At another table sat a clerk, ready to take notes. Douglas was seated off to the side, observing. He was here to learn how it was done – and the thought bothered him. It was too hot in this airless room, and the light was poor everywhere away from the central tables, making the atmosphere even more oppressive.

A guard brought Dr Farrow in and remained standing behind his chair as he sat down. Douglas tried to see if Farrow was hurt, and decided that he had not been harmed. At worst, his pale face and slumped posture suggested that he had been kept awake for most of the night. He retained the derisive expression that he had worn in Heidelberg, as though everything that he was seeing was both faintly surprising and utterly uninteresting to him.

‘Dr Simon Farrow,’ said Huth. The clerk obediently down noted this fact.

Farrow nodded. ‘Dr Huth. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? These ranks that you use in the SS are so unwieldy.’

‘Of course,’ said Huth pleasantly. His tone seemed to encourage Farrow, for the man looked away from the table, towards Douglas.

‘Is that you, Archer? Why don’t you come out of the shadows, where I can see you?’ Douglas might have been shamed into moving forward had Huth not held up a hand.

‘My assistant is exactly where he belongs,’ he said, in the sort of voice that signalled an end to pleasantries. ‘Ask yourself why _you_ are here.’ He dropped a photograph onto the table in front of Farrow. ‘Who is this?’

Farrow gave it a cursory glance. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Why don’t you try harder? And think about whether you want it recorded in our notes that the first question I asked, you answered with a lie.’ Slowly and deliberately, Huth placed a finger at one corner of the photo, straightened it so that it lined up with the edges of the table, and pushed it closer to Farrow.

‘Beata Fromm.’

‘And what was your relationship with her?’

‘We were acquaintances,’ said Farrow. ‘Friends. We met at a recital. Schubert, I think. _Die Schöne Müllerin_.’

Huth said, ‘You’re right about the recital – thank you for being so forthcoming. But you were not just friends; you were lovers. You carried on an affair with Beata Fromm for more than six months.’

That sly little smile appeared on Farrow’s face again: caught lying but determined to brave it out. Douglas found himself balling his hands into fists, wanting to shout at him: _You’re not as clever as you think you are – don’t argue semantics, don’t make him angry._ But he remained still and silent.

Evenly, Farrow said, ‘I don’t deny our affair. But I really had no idea that the SD set itself up as a sort of morality police.’

‘We find ourselves forced to, Dr Farrow, when one of the parties is discovered to be a member of a resistance group.’ Huth looked at his notes. ‘Beata Fromm was involved with an anti-Nazi student movement in Heidelberg. Fortunately for her, this was discovered before her crimes could escalate. Given her youth and her previous good conduct, she was allowed back home to her parents. They even permitted her to return to university a year later, in her home town, where they hoped to exercise the supervision she obviously required.’ Huth looked at Farrow, pushing the notes aside with one hand as though they no longer mattered. ‘But she had not been at her new university more than a few months when she was arrested again, for similar offences. I hardly need to tell you that she was not given a third chance.’

Farrow’s face betrayed nothing. He said, ‘Whatever happened to the unfortunate girl in the time after I knew her, I don’t see what it has to do with me.’

‘Unfortunate?’ Huth seized on the word, a predator shaking its prey by the neck. ‘You believe that she did not deserve what happened to her?’

‘I said nothing of the sort. And whatever you are trying to insinuate, I have been a loyal member of the Party for many years.’

Huth smiled. ‘Dr Farrow, you joined the Party because you did not want to find your life overturned and your career halted. That’s a position that I can respect. But it’s not quite true, is it, that you have always been loyal?’ He left a pause into which Farrow – wisely – did not speak. ‘You began to have misgivings about the Party – you wondered if it might be undermining the education system, to which you had dedicated so many years. Perhaps you discussed your thoughts with Beata Fromm? You certainly discussed them with your colleague, Professor Richter, in nineteen thirty-eight, which was… yes, which was about the time that you knew Beata. And she joined her resistance group not long afterwards. Perhaps it was you who helped set her on that path.’

‘That was a single conversation!’ said Farrow, becoming agitated for the first time. ‘A conversation in confidence, and I –’ He stopped suddenly, and looked Huth in the eye. ‘Professor Richter?’ he said.

Huth toyed with his papers before answering. Then he said, ‘Unlike you, Professor Richter is sensible. When we wanted to speak with him, he assisted us in our enquiries. He has nothing to fear from us.’ Allowing Farrow precisely enough time to sit back in relief, he continued, ‘But we were talking about your political discussions with the Fromm girl.’

‘I discussed nothing of that nature with her,’ said Farrow dully. ‘I never knew her to have any interest in politics. I have always been loyal to the Party.’ He did not look at Huth again. He had realised, just as Douglas had, that what he had or had not done was really of no consequence. He would be given no chance to prove his innocence, and it was not incumbent upon Huth to prove his guilt.

Douglas expected Huth to press his advantage and begin probing for information on Farrow’s research in exchange for amnesty. Instead, the Standartenführer said abruptly, ‘Does your wife know about your affair?’ It was a jarring, crude attack after his methodical campaign against the prisoner, and even Farrow seemed to find it amusing.

‘You’ll be sorry to learn that she does. So I’m afraid you won’t get anywhere by threatening to tell her.’

Huth shrugged. ‘That will be all for today, then, Dr Farrow.’ He nodded to the guard, and Farrow was hauled from his chair and escorted out.

Huth gathered his notes, arranging them back into a pile, before turning in his seat to give Douglas an enquiring look. Douglas had the strangest feeling that Huth could see through the gloom to read the expression on his face; and, as ever, deeper than that. He probably guessed that Douglas felt unwell; that his head hurt; that his uniform tunic, which he had thought that he was becoming used to, suddenly seemed unbearably constrictive.

‘Don’t look so disconsolate,’ Archer,’ said Huth, confirming Douglas’s fears. He stood up. ‘I didn’t expect him to talk today. We’ll try again tomorrow.’

 

‘These accusations are serious.’

Somehow, Farrow produced a wan smile. ‘You’re the one who’s making them – why say it as though you’re surprised?’

Douglas guessed that his capacity for clever remarks would run out before too long. A second sleepless night had robbed him of much of his mental agility and almost all of his energy. He was swaying in his seat, and the smell of his fear and exhaustion was detectable even from across the room.

Huth said, ‘Under the circumstances, you really should be prepared to help. Even if we were to disregard your association with the resistance –’

‘I didn’t –’

‘Shut up. Even if we were to disregard that, you sent German scientists and their research to the Americans, deliberately or…’ Huth paused, watching Farrow, considering. ‘Deliberately or otherwise – maybe it doesn’t matter to me which it was. As long as you tell me what knowledge they took with them.’

‘It would be wrong of me to share other scientists’ research with someone I did not trust.’ Farrow said it parrot-fashion, as though he had rehearsed it to himself during his long hours of enforced wakefulness.

Huth sighed and reached for his notes. He took his time extracting something, and then laid it gently on the table before Farrow. Another photograph.

‘Don’t think about the other scientists,’ said Huth. ‘Think about your daughter. _Die kleine Elsa.’_

Douglas felt ill. The child did not belong here – not her name, not her image. He remembered Huth sitting opposite him in that grimy back room a few months ago, imploring him to consider Douggie’s future; using the boy as a weapon, a means of bending everything to his will.

‘Your daughter doesn’t care what you say in this room. She doesn’t care for whom you work. Elsa doesn’t know what an atomic explosion is, and she will never have to. All Elsa wants is to grow up with a father and, luckily, that’s in your power to give her.’

Very slowly, Farrow shook his head. It was plain that he did not trust himself to speak.

Huth sat back. Seconds drifted by and became minutes. Farrow’s eyes slipped shut, his chin dropped.

‘Tell me why you refuse to help, Dr Farrow,’ said Huth quietly.

The man did not hear him. Huth leaned forward, slamming his fist onto the table. ‘Tell me!’

Farrow sat bolt upright, and his expression of horror at being torn from sleep made Douglas wince. ‘Rumours…’ The word slipped out as though he was too fatigued to keep it in.

‘What rumours?’

‘The experiments… the bomb… That you’d test it in Britain. That you’d drop it on innocent people, just to show what it could do.’

Huth looked incredulous. Douglas, who had never anticipated that he would let his true feelings show during an interrogation, derived more relief from his expression than he could have imagined. Once he had satisfied himself that Farrow meant what he said, Huth began to laugh.

‘That’s why you let it come to this, Dr Farrow – that’s why you were prepared to let yourself be arrested? Because you thought we might want to drop an atomic bomb on – on Newcastle? Is that honestly what you thought?’

Finding himself being laughed at gave Farrow fresh strength. ‘You sit there in that uniform, in this building,’ he said, spitting the words out. ‘You sit there expecting me to take you at your word. Tell me, when has the SS ever failed to do something just because it could? And now you are in control. At least Professor Springer was a scientist – he understood the extent of the potential damage. You – I would not expect you to grasp –’

‘Dr Farrow, don’t insult my intelligence.’ All amusement was gone from Huth’s voice, and his expression had darkened. ‘And don’t talk about Gruppenführer Springer as though you knew him.’ As he so often did, Douglas wondered if Huth really had any use for all the papers that he had taken from Springer’s office, or whether he was just clinging to the professor’s memory.

Farrow said, ‘Whatever you do, with the research, however it’s used… Afterwards… I’d have to explain why I…’ But he was wavering. Even his voice was growing fainter.

‘“Afterwards”? Listen to me: there is no afterwards, and especially not for you if you persist in this. You need to concentrate on here, and now, and you need to decide very soon what you’re going to do.’

Farrow did not reply, and Huth got up from the table. He looked down at the other man with contempt. Was there pity in his expression too, wondered Douglas – or did he just want to believe that there might be?

‘Dr Farrow, you’re no good with pain.’ Huth’s voice was dangerously pleasant once again. ‘My assistant here told me that, and I believe him. If you can’t row the length of a head race without moaning and wailing, then you won’t last any time at all with what they do here. Why even let it come to that when you could avoid it entirely?’

He turned on his heel and left. Douglas followed, certain that Farrow’s stare must be boring into his back. Or perhaps he had already shut his eyes again in another vain attempt to sleep.

 

The next day Farrow said immediately, ‘I want to help.’

Huth waited. He even affected to look surprised, as though he was not the one who had ordered that Farrow be moved to a different cell for his third night in the building. He had told Douglas that twenty-four hours overhearing what the Gestapo did to some of the other prisoners would change Farrow’s mind, and he had been right.

‘What do you want to help with?’ said Huth at last.

‘My students,’ said Farrow, with pathetic desperation. ‘Dahlke and Vogel. I want to tell you about their work.’

‘And what else?’

‘My research, I’ll talk to you about that.’

Huth remained silent, watching Farrow. Douglas found himself looking between the two men: Farrow hunched in supplication, and Huth pretending that he was not yet satisfied. It had never occurred to him before how cruel someone could be without speaking a word.

‘I’ll tell you whatever you want,’ said Farrow. ‘I… I don’t know what you want me to say!’

As though making a concession, Huth shifted his posture slightly, interlocked his fingers and placed his hands on the table. ‘During your affair with Beata Fromm, you began to harbour suspicions about her links to the resistance. You did not inform the proper authorities. You deeply regret this omission.’ He nodded slowly at Farrow, prompting him to speak.

‘Yes,’ said Farrow.

‘But I am confident that you are a loyal member of the Party, and pose no threat to national morale. I am pleased that you have decided to cooperate.’

‘I want to help,’ said Farrow again. ‘I’ll give you the information.’ He looked around wildly, as though for pen and paper to write it down on the spot.

‘Get a grip on yourself – we need very little from you at the present moment.’ Huth took out a piece of paper. ‘Read this. Sign it. ’Douglas knew that it was a prepared confession, an extended version of what Huth had just said to Farrow.

Huth took the signed document back. ‘You’ll give us more information in the morning, once you have rested. Then I will accompany you back to Heidelberg, where you will share your research with us. As soon as I am satisfied, you will be allowed to see your wife and daughter. You will correspond regularly with my experts in the coming weeks and months. Do you agree, Dr Farrow?’

‘Yes,’ said Farrow. ‘Yes, I agree.’

After they had watched Farrow stumble out of the room between the guards, Douglas said, ‘Don’t you think he might have changed his mind by the morning?’

Huth paused in the act of cracking his knuckles and made a noise of derision. ‘Unlikely. He’s already sick of the sight of this room – I know I am.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Still, only ten minutes today, that’s not bad.’

It was rather nauseating having to listen to Huth congratulate himself for breaking a man’s spirit in record time. Douglas said, ‘Did every one of the scientists you’ve recruited to work with you take up so much energy?’

‘No. I’ll admit that Farrow was particularly stubborn.’ Huth tried to look nonchalant, determined not to have his victory spoiled.

‘I would have thought that stubbornness was a quality you admired,’ said Douglas as they got up to leave.

Huth looked over his shoulder at him, smiling thinly. ‘Perhaps. But then I like you, Archer, and you’re not really stubborn at all, are you? You bend _very_ easily.’


	13. Chapter 13

Douglas had scant expectation of success when he asked for permission to remain in Berlin rather than accompanying Huth back to Heidelberg. But Huth was amenable, more so when Douglas claimed he had urgent work on the Kellerman investigation to deal with.

He would probably take Hausser, who would stand too close to Farrow while he copied out details of his research, deliberately making him uncomfortable. It could not be helped – Douglas had no power to make things easier for Farrow. The doctor would make his peace with working for the SD, in time; but Douglas was glad that he did not have to witness the final stages of his coercion. He was content to leave the rest to Huth.

The fine weather lasted into the weekend, and on Saturday he took Douggie to the zoo. Douglas had been apprehensive, concerned that Douggie would resent being forbidden from speaking English while out in public; but the animals provided a substitute for conversation.

Douggie dutifully stood and read the description beside each enclosure, occasionally mouthing words to himself silently. When there was no-one nearby to hear, Douglas translated in a low voice, and Douggie looked through the bars with renewed interest, trying to verify what his father was telling him. That was one positive development, thought Douglas; back in London he might not have bothered to read about the animals. Douggie was especially taken with a large jaguar, sprawled along a branch with eyes half-closed; and was all the more enamoured of the animal because it was determined not to find him interesting. Human nature, Douglas supposed, to want what one could not have. Douggie peered through the bars and made hopeful noises but the jaguar, who could have killed Douggie or indeed his father with one swipe of a paw, did not deign to move a muscle.

‘Sorry, Douggie, I think you’re losing.’ Douglas could see the bare strip of earth along the edge of the enclosure where the animal obviously paced, bored and frustrated. Douggie admitted defeat and turned away.

Douggie said very little throughout the visit, but when he did he spoke naturally, and his pronunciation was excellent. Douglas nearly expressed his admiration, but thought better of it. He did not want Douggie to think that he could earn praise only by assimilating.

Afterwards, they walked out into the Tiergarten. Douglas bought them ice creams. The seller smiled at him, and he realised with a jolt that, not only was he out of uniform, but he had not seen anyone else in uniform either, the entire day. That would never have happened back in London, and even here it seemed a minor miracle.

They found somewhere to sit by the lakeside, where they could speak unheard. Douggie remained silent for a little while, devoting himself to eating his ice cream with all possible speed. Douglas thought that he might have grown taller even in the few weeks since he had arrived – the effects of an unrationed diet.

Now that they were able to talk, he was not sure what to say. ‘How is school?’ he asked finally. ‘What are your teachers like?’

‘Strict. But none of them are too horrible. None of them have shouted, yet.’

‘And the other children?’

‘They’re nice,’ said Douggie, sounding guarded. They both knew what was going unsaid: the teachers knew where Douglas worked, and so did the children. In time it might become a social handicap for Douggie, but at present it was buying him an immunity that few English children in Berlin would have enjoyed.

‘They think it must have been exciting, being in London when the Germans arrived,’ said Douggie. ‘Some of the boys say that they wish they could have seen it.’

‘I suppose they get to hear a lot about the might of the Army and the Luftwaffe. But none of them have seen what they can do.’ Despite himself, Douglas glanced behind him, as though a spy might emerge from between the trees. ‘I hope you told them how brave you were,’ he said to Douggie.

‘Of course I did,’ said his son, smiling. Douglas laughed.

They looked out across the lake. It was not quite like a London park, thought Douglas, but one did not need to pretend very much to imagine that it might be. And sometimes pretending helped.

Douggie said, ‘Herr Thiele was telling us all about the victory monument. They only moved it to the middle of the Tiergarten a few years ago. He said it’s seventy metres tall.’

‘Do you want to go and see it close up?’

The boy considered. ‘No. Not today.’

For the second time that day, Douglas wished that he could tell Douggie how proud he was of him.

 

Douglas saw Huth only briefly before he left, early on Monday morning. Hausser was already waiting downstairs, along with the SS physicist who would verify the information provided by Farrow. Dr Farrow himself had been placed in more comfortable accommodation for the weekend, albeit under guard.

‘Keep an eye on that shit, Mühlbach, while I’m gone,’ said Huth, with unusual vehemence, on the way out of his office. ‘I want to know who he speaks with and which investigations he tries to stick his snout into.’

‘Does he have the authority to do that?’ said Douglas.

‘He thinks that he does.’ Huth pointedly locked his office door behind them, and pocketed the key.

With Huth gone, the department seemed becalmed. The officers worked with no less diligence, but it was remarkable to see how much of their usual energy was provided by the constant threat of Huth appearing out of nowhere and demanding to know the latest developments. Brandt broke off from his work for a whole ten minutes to ask Douglas how he was finding Berlin, and whether he ever missed London. The other officers also seemed easier in his presence without Huth there, although Douglas still noticed conversations halting when he entered a room. Evidently it was expected that he would report back on his colleagues.

Not even Mühlbach created many ripples. Douglas noticed that he or his aides approached officers who worked for Huth, but as far as he could ascertain they were polite but distant – all quiet apologies and strenuous reminders of the great secrecy of the work to which they were assigned. They might welcome a few days in the office without Huth looking over their shoulders, but they were loyal. Mühlbach treated Douglas himself as though he was of little more consequence than one of the office chairs, which suited Douglas quite well. He would rather weather Mühlbach’s contempt than have the man try and befriend him.

Douglas allowed himself to be lulled by the new atmosphere; he even succeeded in persuading himself that everything had worked out for the best. Huth had what he wanted, and Farrow had been allowed to return to his work and his family. How many people could say that they had entered this building as a prisoner and emerged unscathed?

By the third day of Huth’s absence, Douglas began to anticipate his return, imagining Farrow’s relief at finally being left in peace. He wondered if Huth would force Farrow to go out to dinner with him, gleaning perverse satisfaction from making him eat food paid for by the SS. But surely, Huth had enough sense not to gloat over his victory.

In typical fashion, Huth arrived towards the end of the day; immediately spent an hour in conference with Dr Kirchner, who had accompanied him to Heidelberg; and then wandered into Douglas’s office in the early evening, pretending that he was not looking for him.

‘You’ve got what you needed from Farrow?’ said Douglas.

Huth came and leaned on the corner of Brandt’s desk. ‘He was cooperative.’ He shrugged. ‘I won’t say that he feels better for it, but he will in the long run.’ 

‘What about the research he sent to America, with…’ Douglas frowned to himself. He had forgotten the two students’ names. It was disconcerting to stumble upon this lacuna in his memory, when he knew that he could still recall details of cases from five years ago. Uneasily, he wondered if this was how Huth and the others coped with their jobs. Perhaps they all blotted out their recollections, so that every closed investigation became hazy and formless, the details scribbled down and filed away, and any emotions that they had stirred up cast aside and forgotten about. 

‘Dahlke and Vogel? They may be of interest. We’ll try and find out where they are now, but there’s nothing to concern us too greatly. And Kirchner will keep an eye on Farrow, visit him and so on, talk to him about his work.’ Huth pushed himself up from the desk and smiled.

Douglas smiled briefly in return. That was all it needed, he supposed – they had drawn a line under a successful investigation. What had it all been for, though? Was it Huth trying to complete a task that Springer had left unfinished, or was it simply the usual determination of the Nazis to control everything, to dictate who was allowed to do what and when? He knew that he ought not to analyse it – a man could go mad trying to guess at Huth’s motives.

‘Mühlbach,’ said Huth, already onto his next task. ‘You have a list of names for me?’

Douglas unlocked one of his desk drawers, removed a notebook and opened it to show Huth one of the back pages.

Huth glanced at it. ‘Good. We’ll discuss this first thing tomorrow.’

 

Douglas paused when he heard voices coming from inside Huth’s office the next morning. He might have turned away and repaired back to his own office, had a muffled exclamation not piqued his curiosity. He approached the door and waited.

‘There was absolutely no indication that he would do this,’ said Huth.

‘Funny you say that. Everyone tells me that you’re supposed to be good at reading people.’ It was the unmistakeable, leisurely voice of Gruppenführer Mühlbach. Huth did not reply. Mühlbach continued, ‘If you’d put him into an internment camp for a little while, just to get him thinking along the right lines, you’d have avoided this. But you handed him an opportunity, and he took it.’

‘Gruppenführer, not even the Army are stupid enough to put their scientists in internment camps!’

‘I’m sorry, Oskar, _stupid?’_ said Mühlbach.

Douglas recognised the heavy silence that presaged one of Huth’s outbursts. Immediately and without knocking, he entered the room. He thought that Huth was going to vent his anger at the first sign of an interruption, but when the Standartenführer saw who it was he swallowed his rage. ‘Yes, why don’t you come in, Archer?’ he said sarcastically.

‘Leave the door.’ As Mühlbach sauntered past Douglas, he said lightly, ‘Your Oxford pal’s dead.’

‘Dr Farrow?’ Douglas looked at Huth.

‘There was a phone call earlier,’ said Huth. ‘Killed himself, the stupid bastard.’

Mühlbach exited, smirking. Huth, meanwhile, was pretending unconvincingly to sort through the papers on his desk. When he did not say anything, Douglas asked, ‘How?’

‘Jumped from the castle. Some bits of the ruins are quite high, it would seem.’ Huth sank into his chair. Without warning, he slammed his hand onto the edge of his desk, making Douglas flinch. It was never a good sign when Huth started abusing the furniture. ‘Idiot! Not only needlessly operatic in the mode of his demise, but he has achieved nothing by it – certainly nothing that will serve his wife and child.’

‘Perhaps it seemed an obvious method,’ said Douglas, thinking of the castle looming over the town.

Huth scowled. ‘Farrow was a grown man, not a lovesick boy. He had no business with that bit of melodrama.’

Neither of them spoke. Then Douglas said, ‘What about his wife?’

‘She doesn’t know anything. But they’ll take her in locally and question her, just to be certain – we don’t have to go back and do it.’

‘I meant that she’s been widowed,’ said Douglas.

‘Yes, by her husband. Not by us.’

‘Do you think that’s how she will see it?’

‘Farrow was unharmed,’ said Huth coldly. He raised a hand to silence Douglas. ‘Trust me, he was unharmed. And I told him to consider his family. _He_ chose not to do so.’ He got to his feet again, and went over to one of the windows.

Douglas knew the correct course of action. Huth had closed the matter for now, and when he reopened it, he ought to commiserate with him, agree with everything that he said, and then wait obediently for his anger to subside. But something prevented him; something drove him to keep needling Huth for some sign of contrition, a willingness to acknowledge his role in Farrow’s death. He knew that it was his own cowardly way of trying to exonerate himself for sitting there while Huth worked on Farrow, looking into him, taking the things that he cared about and using them against him, just as he had done with Douglas. Such a simple tactic for someone with Huth’s abilities, and especially for a man who loved nothing and no-one, who put so much effort into making sure that he was invulnerable.

‘People will still assume that he was driven to it,’ said Douglas. ‘A man is taken away and interrogated by the SD, and a few days later he commits suicide – what other conclusion are they going to come to?’

Huth looked at him as though he had gone mad. Finding his voice, he said, ‘Archer, you didn’t even like Farrow. You despised him for his lack of respect. You thought that he was weak, and you thought that he was foolish. Don’t start pretending that he was your friend just because he’s dead!’

‘I never said any of that.’

‘You didn’t have to. Do you think I couldn’t tell exactly what you thought of him?’ A bitter smile flickered across Huth’s face.

But Farrow had been braver than they had realised, Douglas saw that now. Perhaps he had even intended to die in Berlin. His nerve had failed him under duress, but still he had been determined not to spend his life helping the SS. He had taken a stand, and that was more than Douglas had ever done. He bent easily, just like Huth had said.

‘You’re right,’ said Douglas. ‘Well done. And you got into Farrow’s head too, didn’t you? Perhaps that’s what he couldn’t stand. He couldn’t live with spending the rest of his career working for you.’

Huth was very still against the light from the window, awkwardly half-turned to face into the room. Douglas braced for his next caustic remark, but none came. He saw Huth’s face twitch, almost imperceptibly. Then Huth turned back to the window, his hands balled into fists on the sill, his shoulders slumped.

‘Just get out, Archer,’ said Huth. He sounded tired.

And yet Douglas stayed. Perhaps he felt guilty for kicking the man when he was down; perhaps the sight of the energy leaving Huth frightened him, now that his own livelihood depended solely on his commanding officer’s will to keep fighting for their survival. Whatever his reason, he walked across the room, approaching Huth from behind.

‘Standartenführer, if I’ve given offence –’

Douglas had forgotten how quickly Huth could move when he wanted to. In a second, he had wheeled around and approached at such speed that Douglas backed away automatically, almost stumbling.

‘Offence, Archer?’ Huth continued to advance until he was uncomfortably close, his chest only a few inches from Douglas’s own. ‘How about “insubordination”?’

He had bounded over with the uncontrolled aggression of an animal, and there was something of that in his movements even now, as though he might strike at any minute. But in his eyes there was an utterly calm anger that was far more frightening. _I could kill you, if I wanted_ , they seemed to say. _Never imagine that I wouldn't do it._

Douglas could feel Huth’s breath on his face. He felt his insides contract, and hated himself for it. But he held the other man’s gaze, knowing that Huth would despise him all the more if he showed weakness. ‘Standartenführer –’

‘I’m warning you, Archer.’ Now Huth was smiling; jaw clenched, eyes hard and glinting. ‘I’m your commanding officer, or had you forgotten? Don’t assume that you can criticise me and keep getting away with it.’

Douglas lowered his eyes, took half a pace back. ‘I apologise, Standartenführer.’

‘Good. Now get out of my office.’


	14. Chapter 14

June 1942

Douglas was not sure whether to feel apprehensive or relieved when, approaching eight thirty at night, Huth appeared in the office doorway. His evening visitations had ceased entirely ever since their argument about Farrow, and Douglas had started to fear for his position. He had no future as a personal assistant if his boss could not bear to look at him.

Then again, Huth might be here to take him to task for the slow progress on the Kellerman investigation. One never knew what to expect from these occasions, when restlessness brought him to speak to Douglas in person. Sometimes it concerned work, but just as often he settled himself behind Brandt’s desk and wanted to discuss trivial matters.

It transpired that Huth had come for no particular reason. ‘What’s that?’ he said, indicating the newspaper that Douglas was looking at. Douglas held it out to him. Huth studied the photograph at the top of the page, his eyes widening in recognition. Ever adept at missing the point, when he chose to, he said, ‘I didn’t realise you read _Das Schwarze Korps.’_

 _Das Schwarze Korps_ was the official SS newspaper, and Douglas had studiously avoided ever looking at a copy before today. ‘Brandt showed it to me,’ he said.

‘Thoughtful of him.’ Huth walked over to Brandt’s desk, dropping the newspaper back in front of Douglas as he went. He sat in Brandt’s chair and rifled through his possessions to find an ashtray.

Douglas did not want to look at the photograph any more, but his eyes were drawn to it: the line of boys standing at attention in their uniforms, and the man inspecting them. ‘Did you know that the Reichsführer would be in attendance last weekend?’ he said to Huth.

‘No, I didn’t. I’m not responsible for keeping his appointments diary. But that parade was quite an event in the Hitler Youth calendar, wasn’t it?’ Huth paused, as though to acknowledge the lunacy of such a thing existing. ‘And half the boys in your son’s troop are the children of SS officers, correct? You might have guessed that he was going to put in an appearance.’

‘He’s shaking hands with my son!’ said Douglas, unable to stop himself from waving the photograph in Huth’s direction.

‘Well, he likes to try and appear human sometimes, you know.’ Huth laughed. ‘He’s fighting a losing battle, I’ll grant you, but he’s allowed to dream.’

‘That’s my son,’ said Douglas again. ‘And the caption describes the boys as “future SS leaders”.’ He made no attempt to suppress his disgust at the idea.

Huth shook his head. ‘For God’s sake. If half the stuff they printed in that rag came true we’d have invaded the moon by now. I think your policy of not reading it at all was serving you better. And it doesn’t identify your son by name, does it?’ He leaned forward perilously in the chair, motioning for Douglas to get up and give him back the paper, whereupon he looked at the photograph again. ‘No. He’s indistinguishable from any other German child.’

‘He said that Himmler asked his name. And he recognised it, of course, and knew Douggie was my son – asked him how he liked Germany.’

‘You should be pleased, then!’ Huth’s exclamation was muffled by the cigarette clasped between his lips. He removed it and said, ‘The Reichsführer is prepared to like the English, be grateful for that. He isn’t the same as Mühlbach – he believes that you _can_ be trained.’ He smirked. ‘And he thinks that you’re racially pure: practically as good as the Germans.’

Douglas knew that Huth had about as much patience with Himmler’s racial theories as he did himself, which was to say none at all. He was only mentioning it to annoy him. He snorted in derision, louder than he had intended.

‘Sorry, Archer, what was that?’ said Huth sharply.

‘Nothing – I believe we were discussing our racial purity?’

Huth favoured Douglas with a cold look, asserting his right to determine the acceptable limits of all levity at Himmler’s expense. ‘You ought to be thankful that Himmler met your son before this latest business in London. He’s probably not feeling quite so well disposed towards the English anymore.’

Douglas was forced to concede the point. The British resistance movement had recently taken to targeting SS personnel, and what was more, it was clear that the German Army had limited interest in preventing such attacks. Boerner’s recent reports from Scotland Yard made dispiriting reading – unless, of course, one enjoyed reading about circumstances that made life difficult for General Kellerman. Douglas had earned a rare expression of gratitude from Huth when he passed on the latest dispatch, and Huth had returned from his subsequent briefing with the Reichsführer unable to conceal his satisfaction. The official position, he explained, was that it did not matter if the victim of the most recent hanging was nineteen, and careless, and on his way back from a brothel – he was an SS man, and therefore worth ten of the Army’s soldiers. If General Kellerman thought that he could let the flower of German youth be slaughtered because he was too cowardly to take the Army to task, then he ought to reconsider.

The news had come at a fortunate time for Huth. If the Standartenführer’s appalling mood for the past few weeks was any indication, word of Farrow’s suicide had reached Himmler. The SS were bound to feel cheated as a point of principle when one of their victims escaped them, even in death, and the Reichsführer probably felt that Huth had mishandled the affair.

More worryingly, Mühlbach had begun to appear in meetings concerning the nuclear project. Douglas had expected that Huth would find some way of getting rid of him, but he remained, grinning often, saying little, and probably understanding less. Back in April, Huth had told Douglas with utter confidence that the project would come under his control, without the need for oversight by a superior officer, but now it looked more and more likely that he would be proven wrong.

Huth struggled to control his resentment. After the most recent meeting, once the room was cleared and only he and Douglas remained, he had blurted, ‘You know, Archer, if he hadn’t transferred from the SA to the SS when he did, we’d have been rid of him in nineteen thirty-four!’ Douglas hated to admit it, even to himself, but he shared some of Huth’s frustration that Mühlbach was not long since dead, unlike so many of his former comrades.

Now, Huth got up from his chair. ‘I’m going home. You should too.’ He made for the door.

Automatically, Douglas went to empty Brandt’s ashtray and retrieve the newspaper from his desk. But Huth turned around and got there before him. Grabbing the paper just before Douglas reached it, he folded it in two, and deposited it in the bin nearby.

‘Archer, I don’t recall promising that you or your son would never be used in any form of propaganda.’ Still looking Douglas in the face, Huth reached out and tapped his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray that he was holding. ‘In fact, I know I didn’t promise you that, because it wasn’t in my power to promise. Forget about the photograph – everybody else already has. We both know that within two weeks that paper will be crammed with pictures of the Reichsführer greeting our Russian friends.’

‘I take it that you don’t plan to feature,’ said Douglas. Later in the week Himmler would be travelling to Poland for security talks with the Russians. Huth, seemingly under sufferance, was one of the officers accompanying him.

‘Not if the photographer knows what’s good for him,’ said Huth, from the doorway. ‘Goodnight, Archer.’

 

Huth held a briefing the day before he left. Several of the officers in the department were going with him, and they would be absent for a fortnight. Following his meetings with the Russians, Himmler intended to spend several days touring what people euphemistically described as “SS interests” in occupied Poland. It made Douglas feel all the more fortunate that Huth was leaving him in Berlin.

‘More than six months it’s been, since the Highgate attack,’ said Huth irritably, as he and Douglas were about to go into the meeting. ‘It was a while before the Russians could bury their dead, of course – they had to wait for the ground to soften. And then a couple of months for them to collect their thoughts, and here we are. You realise I might have avoided it entirely if I hadn’t actually been present at the ceremony? Himmler will probably want me to remind them how many brave Germans died as well.’

The meetings in Poland, to be held just over the border from Russian-controlled territory, were intended to herald a new era of understanding and cooperation between the German and the Russian security forces. But the matter of the Highgate bombing loomed large. The Russians were still anxious to understand how so many of their dignitaries had come to die in such an attack; the SS, naturally, wanted to remind everyone that the blame lay not with them, but with the Army. Consequently, the Army had insisted on sending a contingent as well; and the Russians found it necessary to match this display of force by sending several high-ranking officers of their own.

‘I suppose it’s the first time this many Germans and Russians have been together since Highgate,’ said Douglas. ‘I hope no-one gets it into their head to try anything.’

Huth smiled. ‘It makes me realise why your career in the Resistance was so short-lived. After last time, the SS and Army will be crawling over each other to provide security. Half of the town will barricade themselves in their homes until it’s all over.’

‘It’s hard to blame them.’

‘Just go and tell the others that I’ll be there in a minute, will you?’

Douglas found it entertaining to watch the faces of his colleagues as entered the room. Some looked scornful, others amused, some merely indifferent. Brandt gave his usual lukewarm smile. Lehmann, the only other officer that Douglas might have called a friend, was distracted, gazing away from the table as though trying to remember a particularly complicated joke that someone had told him in the late nineteen-thirties.

It had come as a surprise to discover how much importance they all attached to the trip, and especially the fact that Huth was not taking him. They took it as a sign that he had fallen in Huth’s favour, as though all of them had been waiting, wondering how long it would be before relations soured between them. Hausser had even sidled up to him recently, smirking, and murmured, ‘Lovers’ quarrel?’

Douglas had clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy Poland, Hausser.’ He knew that no-one would enjoy it. The security would be a nightmare. Huth would remain in a terrible mood at being kept away from his work, and would spend much of the time complaining about the Army. If he had really wanted to punish Douglas for his supposed insubordination, then he would have forced him to go.

When Huth arrived, the officers made their reports one by one, outlining their responsibilities in his absence. They knew by now to keep them brief and to the point. Huth said, ‘Anything that cannot wait until my return should be submitted to Sturmbannführer Probst. Should a matter arise that you deem important enough to merit my immediate attention, speak to Obersturmführer Archer. He will contact me at his discretion. He will also be managing my correspondence while I am away.’

A less astute group of officers might have concluded that Douglas was being demoted to the role of glorified secretary, but these men recognised Huth’s real intention. In theory, Douglas would now be permitted to hear details of any investigation, or indeed anything else so sensitive that it must go straight to Huth. Whether his colleagues chose to share it with him was another matter. Major Probst, in particular, was already looking at him with open dislike.

Huth got to his feet, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘These meetings with the Russians are a vital opportunity to strengthen mutually our respective security forces. I am certain that they will be productive.’ It was unlikely that even one officer around the table believed he was sincere, but they all nodded energetically nonetheless. ‘Dismissed,’ said Huth. ‘Probst, you wanted to speak with me? I thought you might. Archer, go and wait in my office.’

Douglas had barely sat down at the long table when Huth and Probst came in. To his subordinate’s evident discomfort, Huth continued talking as they entered the room. ‘Probst, what you must remember about Archer is that he isn’t going to get drunk one evening with his old friend over in Race and Settlement and start blabbing confidential details of our investigations. Because he doesn’t have any friends in Race and Settlement, or anywhere else. Do you, Archer?’

‘No, Standartenführer.’

From the way that Probst’s round face reddened, Huth was referring to a past misdemeanour. ‘Standartenführer, I apologise...’

‘You apologised at the time, and I accepted your apology. And so, in the end, did Heydrich, despite the very dim view that both he and I take of sensitive information being shared outside the SD. So please, consider the matter closed.’ Huth let Probst nod, salute, and get nearly as far as the door before he added, ‘And by the by, next time Gruppenführer Mühlbach approaches you wanting to discuss your work, be a little more emphatic in your refusal.’

As the door shut behind Probst, Huth turned to Douglas. ‘Speaking of Mühlbach, at some point over the next few days, he is going to find that one of his aides has been accused of some quite serious misdemeanours. Getting the whole mess sorted out will take up a considerable amount of his time.’

‘That’s very convenient,’ said Douglas.

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? See that you offer whatever help is necessary.’ By this, Huth meant that Douglas was to stir up some more trouble should the events that he had orchestrated not suffice. ‘And Archer? The Kellerman investigation – I want to see progress by the time I’m back. You’ve had long enough to find out what’s going on.’ He saw the expression on Douglas’s face, and sighed. ‘Exactly how much money has he moved – can you at least put a figure to it?’

‘Three million,’ said Douglas quietly.

‘Right. And you’ve absolutely no idea how he has done it or where it is, is that correct? Is it even worth my asking how that can be the case, or are you just going to stand there blinking at me?’

‘Eckhardt’s disappeared.’

Huth had not yet exhausted his supply of scorn. ‘What the hell do you mean, “disappeared”?’

‘Our people in Zürich haven’t been able to contact him since last week, is that clear enough? And Eckhardt was giving us most of our information. So that’s why I don’t know how or where Kellerman’s moved the money.’

Huth adopted that expression of mild amusement that he so often wore when Douglas answered him back. ‘Then, if it’s not too much trouble, perhaps you could look into that further? Eckhardt was a useful informant. He did good work for us. If he has disappeared I want to know when, and how; and if he’s dead, I want to know where his body is buried.’ He smiled grimly. ‘And then, Archer, we can add his murder to Kellerman’s account as well.’


	15. Chapter 15

Douglas could remember a time when the sight of General Kellerman’s handwriting was not enough to provoke immediate panic. Now, however, when he arrived home and saw the unopened envelope waiting for him on the hall table, he wished that he could throw it into the fireplace. It was as though the investigation had taken on a malevolent life of its own and followed him back from the office. He waited until Douggie was in bed before he took the letter to the safety of his own room.

Inside the envelope was a newspaper cutting: the photo of Douggie shaking hands with the Reichsführer. It fell from within the folds of a single sheet of thick notepaper.

_My dear Obersturmführer Archer,_

_How wonderful it is to see young Douglas settling in so well. Remember me to him, and give him my fondest wishes. I feel sure that he will be a great asset to the Reich – equally at home in Berlin and in London, should you and he ever find that you wish to return here. As I am sure that Dr Huth has impressed upon you, a place on the Reichsführer’s staff can very often be precarious._

_Warm regards,  
Fritz Kellerman_

Douglas’s first instinct was to ball the letter up in his fist and hurl it across the room, but he restrained himself. When he read it again, its gloating tone struck him differently. He began to believe that it was intended as an offer as much as a threat: hinting at a job for him back in London, presumably in exchange for misplacing the evidence that Huth had accumulated against Kellerman. Perhaps Kellerman, increasingly feeling cornered, was seeking allies wherever he could find them.

Douglas looked at the photograph again. It would have been easy for Kellerman to surmise that it made him feel angry, even guilty for bringing Douggie here. Few people, British or German, would be pleased to see their child pictured in the company of Heinrich Himmler. But the more that he thought about it, the more convenient the timing seemed. And how had Kellerman known that he would even see the photograph – did he think that Huth was crass enough to wave it in front of him in triumph?

He thought of what Huth had said about Douggie: _he’s indistinguishable from any other German child._ And Douglas wondered whether Hauptsturmführer Brandt, who had deliberately shown him the paper a few days ago and noted his reaction, had any reason to know what Douggie looked like – unless, perhaps, Kellerman himself had told him.

 

He started with an informant of Huth’s, a shabby little career criminal who was kept in line only by the constant threat of Huth finally getting sick of him and turning him over to the police. Douglas would have preferred not to use Rudi Krabbe, but he could scarcely call on anyone within the SD to help him investigate a colleague.

Douglas arranged to meet Krabbe in the back room of a bar in one of the less salubrious parts of Kreuzberg. When he entered the establishment the other patrons stared fixedly down at their beer, and paid him no heed. Douglas supposed that they were used to well-dressed men coming in here for private meetings of one kind or another.

The whole business made him uneasy in a way that his work in London never had. He had years of experience there, of course, while the criminal element of Berlin was largely alien to him – but it was not just that. Although he should have felt safer here, with all the repressive machinery of the Nazi state at his back, he found himself wondering if it hadn’t made the criminals harsher and more ruthless too: an arms race that made life more unpleasant for everyone.

Krabbe greeted Douglas with an insolent stare, and thereafter had to be persuaded by slow degrees to show more respect. Douglas soon began to find it tiring, and realised to his shame that he would actually have preferred to be in uniform, if only to remind the man who he was. Without it, he got the impression that his relative youth and his English accent counted against him. Krabbe had very bright blue, rather protuberant eyes, and every time Douglas told him something he blinked slowly, with a bob of the head that hinted at mockery behind the subservient mannerism. 

Douglas had decided that he had a good chance of uncovering Brandt’s activities, if indeed there were any. If he really was spying in the department then he would be suicidal to send Kellerman any missives from there; and he would be equally foolish to make his own home the centre of his operations. He did, after all, have a wife and child. By whatever means he might be contacting Kellerman, there was a way of monitoring him. That was where Krabbe came in.

‘You’ll watch his apartment to see when he leaves,’ Douglas told him. ‘I want to know where he goes, and who he meets with.’ He gave him Brandt’s address in Schöneberg.

‘One of yours?’ said the man, upon hearing in which district Brandt lived.

‘What if he is?’

‘I can’t help you if he’s one of yours,’ said Krabbe, in that stupid, garrulous way that he lapsed into whenever he was allowed to speak more than a few words at a time. ‘Not safe for me, is it? If he was to spot me following him – and there’s a fair chance he would, being one of you – then I know where I’d end up.’

‘You’ll do as you’re damned well told, or I’ll put you there myself,’ said Douglas, correctly guessing Huth’s usual negotiating style. He noticed that the third and fourth fingers on Krabbe’s left hand were crooked – broken and reset awkwardly – and wondered if that was courtesy of Huth, or whether something else had befallen him: an industrial accident, perhaps, or a botched robbery. ‘So yes, do keep in mind where you could end up,’ he said to Krabbe.

The grubby little man perked up. Perhaps he had only been waiting for Douglas to deal with him in a way that he could understand. He raised no more complaints about being asked to follow an SD officer, and made no comment when Douglas showed him a photograph of Brandt to let him memorize his face.

They arranged to meet again four days later, by which time Douglas’s confidence had evaporated under constant fear of being found out. Most of all, it was Brandt’s inscrutability that put him on edge. He could easily have spotted Krabbe loitering outside his house and had him brought in for questioning; he might be sitting there at his desk the whole day with the informant’s blood on his hands – literally or figuratively – and Douglas would not be able to tell.

But Krabbe was waiting for Douglas at the bar. ‘You’ll want to buy the drinks,’ he said at once, which Douglas took to mean that he had something to report.

They went through to the private room. Outside it was still light, and the scent of summer was on the air; but in this dark, low-ceilinged space the only smell was of stale beer and cheap tobacco. Krabbe sat down, making himself comfortable, an oily smile plastered across his face. He might count for nothing in civilised society, but here he was king, and he meant Douglas to know it.

‘What have you got for me?’ said Douglas.

Krabbe exhaled. ‘Your man’s like clockwork. Comes and goes regular hours, morning and evening. Not much excitement in his life.’

‘I know,’ said Douglas.

‘Then, last night, he goes for an evening stroll to the Tiergarten.’

‘Did you stay out of sight?’ Douglas did not like the sound of this. There was far more risk of Krabbe being spotted out in the park than on the street.

Krabbe looked scornful. ‘How long d’you think I’ve been doing this?’

‘I’d hazard a guess that you’ve been into this sort of thing since you were a child,’ said Douglas. Krabbe appeared to take this as a compliment, and his dubious good nature was restored.

‘I followed him all the way to Café Luther,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t go in after him, of course – he’d have noticed me in a place like that.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. He entered alone?’

Krabbe nodded. Douglas said, ‘You didn’t see anyone who he might have been meeting?’

‘What, you’d like me to list everyone that I saw go in, would you?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Douglas looked at his watch. There was still time for him to get to the café before they packed up for the night. ‘Buy yourself another drink,’ he said to Krabbe, putting some coins on the table. ‘And wait for me to contact you again.’

Café Luther was a single storey wooden building, not unlike a chalet in style. They had stopped serving customers by the time that Douglas arrived; the chairs were stacked on the tables and a youth was sweeping the floor.

‘The manager?’ said Douglas briskly.

The man was very young, and well educated in the principle that orders should be obeyed without question. He pointed Douglas towards a thin streak of light in the darkened recesses of the café, a door left standing ajar.

Douglas knocked before entering, although he expected to cast any politeness aside before long. By now he had learnt only too well how the SD usually went about eliciting information from civilians. 

The manager was seated at a table, counting the day’s takings. He was a broad-chested man with a large moustache, and an expression of worry that deepened when he saw Douglas. He got up and came around the table to meet him.

‘I’m here to enquire about one of your customers,’ said Douglas.

‘Is that so?’ said the man, with studied dignity. If he had not already guessed that Douglas represented one branch of the police or another, then he was assured of it when Douglas produced his SD identification card. ‘How can I assist you?’ he said, with greater deference.

‘Your name?’

‘Johannes Baum.’

Douglas took out the photo of Brandt, the same one that he had shown to Krabbe a few days ago. ‘Do you recognise this man? He was in here last night.’

Baum accepted the picture and stared at it. Douglas let him take his time. All the photos of Brandt on file were official SS portraits. Out of his uniform he probably looked quite different – one might have assumed that he was a clerk or an accountant.

‘I recognise him,’ said Baum. After a short but highly noticeable pause, he added, ‘He is one of our regular customers.’

‘He comes here to meet someone?’ Douglas guessed that Brandt must have an arrangement with the café owner, if he was using the place for regular assignations. Far better to have a friendly chat with the man and explain that his attention was best directed elsewhere than to risk him becoming jittery and making a report to the authorities.

‘Yes, he… he meets an old friend here, I believe.’ Then Baum said, ‘Is he really SS?’

‘Does that surprise you? Why, what else do you suppose he was? Perhaps you thought he might be a Communist. You must have suspected that he was up to something.’

Slowly, Baum began to retreat behind the table, as if to put the money between himself and Douglas, harbouring some unconscious hope that he could buy his way out of trouble. He was not yet wringing his hands, but he looked like he might be about to.

Douglas knew that he had taken a risk by showing Baum his ID and the photo of Brandt, even though he could not have avoided it. Now it was his unfortunate task to intimidate the man so thoroughly that he would not breathe a word to anyone that the SD had been in here asking questions. ‘What other meetings do you allow to take place here?’ he said. ‘You’ll play host to anyone wanting a private place to talk in Berlin, is that it?’ Douglas indicated the money, taking up a couple of notes and dropping them back onto the table. ‘And this – are these the bribes you get in return?’

‘No! No, it’s nothing like that. I have no idea what they discuss! And no-one else comes to meet here.’ Baum was cringing, red in the face. He might have continued in the same vein all night had he been allowed to, but Douglas could not bear it. One sensed that things had not been easy for Johannes Baum, scraping a living here in this corner of the Tiergarten through times of political upheaval and war. And Douglas was probably not the first Nazi official to come and spoil a summer evening by demanding information.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Tell me about the person with whom he meets.’

Baum sat down with a heavy sigh. Determined not to show undue leniency, Douglas raised an eyebrow, and waited for Baum to notice and become flustered, before saying, ‘You’re welcome to sit.’

Baum was able to give a detailed, if bland, description of Brandt’s friend. A man of middle height, in middle age; smartly dressed, but not unusually so. Douglas tried to tell himself that it might all be perfectly innocent, but some instinct of his insisted that this must be Kellerman’s informant. It would explain so much about the delays in the investigation, culminating in the untimely loss of Eckhardt. And it was particularly interesting that Baum did not recall seeing Brandt and his friend in the café any time before 1942.

He wondered if he might ask Baum to listen in to the conversation the next time that Brandt visited, but decided against it. Wretched though he felt about bullying him, he could not take Baum’s fear as a sign that he was trustworthy. Realising that he was caught between two SD officers, he might well switch his loyalties back to Brandt, and tell him that Douglas had paid a visit.

Douglas took out a pen and paper. ‘I’ll need to take a statement.’

He left Baum sweating behind his desk, having extracted a solemn promise that he would keep their interview secret. Everything about the encounter left a bitter taste, but Douglas could not deny that it had been a successful evening’s work. And yet, he thought, he must act quickly to obtain solid evidence of what Brandt was discussing, and with whom.


	16. Chapter 16

By the time that he reached his apartment, Douglas had a notion of how he might find out about Brandt’s meetings. That was one of the very few positive effects of coming to work for Huth: it had enhanced his ability to think on his feet.

As Douglas entered the living room, Fräulein Taube put aside her sewing and made as if to rise from her seat, but he said, ‘No, please, stay there.’ He fetched his briefcase and sat down in one of the armchairs, pretending to arrange some of his papers. He wondered if she could smell where he had been: the lingering scent of food in the café, the aroma of stale beer that had pervaded the little bar in Kreuzberg.

Since Douglas had come back into the room, the young woman had fixed all her attention on her needlework, not even glancing over at him. She was wise enough not to give the impression that she might be prying into his work. Casually, without looking up, Douglas said, ‘Fräulein Taube, who is it that you report back to?’

She started, pricked herself on the needle, and stifled a yelp. Her eyes were immediately wide and full of fear. Douglas said, ‘You mustn’t think that I’m angry – I’m only interested. I realised at once that you must be making reports to someone. But I suppose you’re really not meant to tell me?’

Despite his reassurances, she looked almost tearful. ‘I don’t report back to anyone,’ she said, rather desperately. ‘Or at least, not for weeks. There’s nothing for me to report – there never was anything. Only that you work such long hours. And that you care very much about your son. I told them how good his German was. Herr Archer, you know how fond I am of Douggie…’

‘Of course. Please, don’t worry. I shouldn’t have asked.’ Douglas hesitated, but pressed on. ‘Tell me, how did you come to work for them – the SD? Or is it the Gestapo that you work for?’

She gave a little laugh. ‘You know, I’m not sure. Aren’t they both the same thing, in the end?’

‘Not quite. But they certainly have a complicated system,’ said Douglas drily.

‘Well, they recruited me. We had a man come to give a talk at one of our meetings – at the BDM.’

Douglas nodded. The BDM was the girls’ wing of the Hitler Youth.

‘They didn’t say exactly who he worked for. But afterwards, he approached one or two of us, and asked if we had enjoyed the talk. He said that there could be a role for us, if we wanted to help with their mission. Spreading Nazi ideals, you know.’ She smiled, with perhaps the smallest hint of bitterness. ‘He made it sound like important work.’

‘I understand,’ said Douglas. It was a depressing tale, all in all. But at least the confrontation had made Fräulein Taube drop some of the act that she put on, projecting the ideal of Nazi womanhood. Douglas realised that she had a more interesting face when she was not forcing herself to smile demurely.

She leaned forward in the chair. ‘I couldn’t go to university,’ she said. ‘They limit places for girls so strictly, and my parents didn’t want me to, anyway. And they wouldn’t let me train to be a secretary either – they think it wouldn’t be respectable. But they didn’t mind me doing this. They think it’s just taking care of Douggie and keeping the house. I’ve never told them about the other part of the work.’ She looked at Douglas. ‘I’m very pleased to be working for you, Herr Archer, so it’s only right that I’m honest with you about why I accepted the job. _I_ certainly don’t see why they would think they couldn’t trust you.’ 

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Douglas. ‘I wouldn’t blame you. Believe me, not even my colleagues trust me all that much.’ He wondered if Gerda Taube realised what the SD was like, or whether she still had any romantic notions casting them as brave protectors of Germany. ‘I think you’re sensible not to tell your parents,’ he said. ‘It would only worry them.’

He wanted to say something to assuage both their consciences, to tell her that she could consider her position in his household quite without danger. He thought of her doting father and her anxious mother; and he thought of Jimmy Dunn back in London, who had also been young and enthusiastic, and for his enthusiasm had been murdered by the Resistance. He almost resolved to forget about the whole thing and tell her to go to bed.

But was it really possible that she did not know what the Gestapo did? It was unlikely, especially for someone so bright. Civilians might not realise half of what the SS were capable of, but Douglas knew from personal experience that they understood well enough to react with fear to the sight of his uniform. Fräulein Taube knew all this, and she had accepted a job with them anyway. ‘Did they make you swear an oath, when you started working for them?’ said Douglas.

She said, ‘They made me promise to keep everything secret, yes.’

That decided him. ‘Fräulein Taube, would you do some work for me?’

She hesitated only for a second, and then said, ‘What sort of work?’ 

‘There’s someone I’d like to you follow. He has been meeting someone, and I need to find out who it is.’

‘So I’d be like… a spy, you mean?’

Douglas almost reminded her that she was a spy already, but decided against it. ‘Yes, I suppose,’ he said. ‘You’d have to act naturally, so he didn’t suspect anything.’

‘I can do that,’ she said decisively. ‘Just tell me what to do.’

Now, Douglas supposed, he would need to teach her everything that he knew about how to follow someone without being seen – and hope that his advice would serve her better than it had Jimmy.

 

‘You’re taking this call in my office, yes?’ said Huth.

‘Yes,’ said Douglas. The officer who had come to fetch him had been adamant that Huth wanted to speak to him in private. Nonetheless, it felt strange to be sitting here behind Huth’s desk. Douglas kept expecting that someone – probably Sturmbannführer Probst – would come in and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing.

‘Good,’ said Huth. ‘We don’t need Brandt listening in.’

They certainly did not need his office-mate listening to anything, although Douglas did not plan to share his suspicions with Huth before they were verified. By chance, the Standartenführer had phoned on the very day when Douglas intended to find out once and for all who Brandt was meeting with. He hoped that Huth did not have any task for him that would interfere with his plans.

Huth sounded weary. Douglas did not even know where he was calling from, although he knew that the conference with the Russians had ended by now. The Reichsführer and his entourage must have moved on to new locations. Douglas guessed that Huth had called simply to distract himself from the whole business. ‘How were the Russians?’ he asked.

‘Why, what have you heard?’ said Huth, immediately suspicious, detecting something in Douglas’s tone. Douglas hesitated, and Huth said, ‘Spit it out, Archer, I don’t have time for you to be coy with me.’

‘There’s a rumour going around that they raised border disputes,’ said Douglas.

‘Oh, is there? Well, if you hear anyone repeating that, you might remind them that we lock people up for less.’

Noting firstly that the rumours were almost certainly true, and secondly that the trip had done nothing to improve Huth’s temper, Douglas said, ‘Of course.’

‘The Kellerman investigation?’ said Huth.

‘They found Eckhardt’s body in the river. We’re working on recruiting a new informant.’

Huth did not say anything. Douglas could not tell whether he was observing a moment’s silence for Eckhardt, or speechless with frustration, thinking about Kellerman. To hold off any more questions, he said, ‘There was some mail for you. I can open it if you think it’s important.’

‘What is it?’ said Huth.

Even if Huth pretended to, Douglas had not forgotten Kellerman’s threat about the family records. The recent letters, he suspected, were something in the same vein. ‘There’s one from Kolding,’ he said. ‘That’s a town in Denmark –’

‘I know where Kolding is,’ said Huth. ‘One of our people sent that, no need to open it.’

‘You have a family connection to the town, perhaps?’ said Douglas, partly out of annoyance at being silenced. He would have thought twice about saying it had Huth been in the room with him.

‘Yes, a family connection, excellent detective work, Archer.’ If nothing else, Huth’s amused drawl signified that Douglas had succeeded in providing him some entertainment. ‘You really are wasted working for me – maybe we _should_ find you a job in Race and Settlement, with all the other amateur genealogists.’

Douglas waited to make sure that Huth had finished. ‘The other letter is from a Professor Gregson at University College London.’ He paused. ‘Is he one of our physicists?’

This time Huth laughed outright. ‘“Is he one of our physicists?”’ he said, producing an uncanny impersonation of Douglas’s German. ‘You’re a terrible liar, even over the phone. We both know he isn’t, because you’ve checked for yourself, otherwise what am I employing you for? Come on then, who is he? I certainly don’t know.’

Although he could not recall ever hearing Huth admit to not knowing something before, Douglas felt unease rather than triumph. ‘Professor Gregson is a neurologist,’ he said. ‘An expert on disorders of the nervous system.’

‘I see,’ said Huth gravely. ‘Don’t open that one either, then. Was there anything else?’

Already, Huth’s voice was distant, contemplating his next task for the afternoon. ‘Nothing else, Standartenführer,’ said Douglas.

He expected an abrupt goodbye, or nothing at all except for the click of Huth replacing the receiver, but instead there was a short silence. Then Huth said, ‘Thank you, Archer. I will see you in a few days’ time.’

Douglas remained at Huth’s desk for several minutes after he had hung up. He reached for the letters, studying them again as if under a compulsion. Something was afoot, however calm Huth’s reaction. If there was no truth in Kellerman’s oblique hints about his family, why would he have one of his people conducting investigations in Denmark, sending him letters? The existence of Danish ancestors was not enough by itself to create difficulties – it violated none of the racial requirements so jealously guarded by Himmler – but there must be something else.

He would get no closer to the truth just by staring at the envelopes. Douglas put the letters down. It would soon be time for him to speak to Brandt, and provide him a few updates to convey to his informant.

 

When Douglas arrived home, Fräulein Taube gave him a tight, anxious smile, and went to get changed. When she returned, they sat together in the living room, waiting to hear the phone. 

Douglas said again, ‘You shouldn’t risk them noticing you, just to hear what they are saying. If you can see who he meets with, that will be more than enough.’

‘But I’ll try to hear if I can,’ she said. Once again, she took out the small photograph of Brandt, memorising his face.

‘He’s not all that impressive in real life,’ said Douglas, trying to relieve some of the tension. ‘Look for someone who reminds you of an accountant.’ Fräulein Taube laughed.

Douggie had been in his bedroom making a start on his homework, but had sensed that something was afoot. He peered around the living room door and said in perfect German, ‘May I bring my work and sit in here?’

‘No, Douggie, stay in your room for now.’

Switching to English, the boy said, ‘But Dad…’

‘Do as I said, Douggie!’ It was rare that Douglas shouted at his son, especially in German; and the fact that he was still in uniform did not help matters. His son looked mortified, and withdrew back into the hall.

The phone rang.

Down the line came the oleaginous voice of Rudi Krabbe, calling from the phone box near Brandt’s apartment. He said, ‘Your man’s just gone out. Turned in the direction of the Tiergarten.’

Douglas replaced the receiver. ‘Well, good luck,’ he said to Fräulein Taube.

She got to her feet, and Douglas looked her up and down. ‘No-one will even notice me,’ she said. ‘And even if they do, all they will think is that I’m stopping for a drink on the way home from work on a nice evening.’

‘You’re right, of course,’ said Douglas.

He had hidden his concerns while they sat waiting, but once Fräulein Taube was gone they returned in full force. Brandt might well consider it suspicious that Douglas had casually mentioned information about the Kellerman investigation, and then left work early. Douglas wished that he had made more effort to discover exactly who Fräulein Taube worked for, so that he knew who to approach for clemency should they be found out. Huth would certainly be disinclined to help – Douglas could imagine his reaction upon learning that he had launched an unauthorised investigation into a fellow officer.

Douglas changed his clothes, and went through to see his son. Douggie was on the bed, reading. ‘I’m sorry that I shouted,’ said Douglas.

‘It’s alright,’ said Douggie quietly.

‘No, it’s not. Will you come and sit with me now? You can show me what you’re reading.’

Douglas made tea. He carried it through to the living room, and sat down beside his son on the sofa. Douggie looked up with an expression of mild guilt. He had been reading ahead.

‘Siegfried was in the forest, talking to birds,’ he said. ‘It was boring.’

Douglas looked over his shoulder. The book was an illustrated – and heavily simplified – retelling of the Ring Cycle, evidently developed with National Socialist ideals in mind. The artist had placed unsubtle emphasis on the heroes’ Germanic appearance and the glaring unattractiveness of the villains. Douggie was looking at a picture in the final instalment, poring over the caption. Siegfried and Gunther were standing on the banks of the Rhine.

‘They are swearing…’ Douggie gave up, and looked enquiringly at Douglas.

‘They’re swearing blood brotherhood,’ said Douglas. The two men in the picture were clasping hands, and a discreet amount of blood was just visible trickling down Siegfried’s wrist.

‘Oh,’ said Douggie. ‘Why?’

‘They’re tricking him,’ said Douglas. ‘The king wants Siegfried to get something for him – something that he can’t get for himself. They’ve got him to agree to it, and now they’re making a pact.’ He did not have the heart to add that the whole affair ended badly for everyone concerned. It was only too apposite that the Nazis had embraced this particular tale.

Douggie found his place in the preceding chapter, and they read on. By the time Siegfried had killed first a dragon and then his foster father, Douglas was finding it nearly impossible to concentrate. He heard the sound of the door latch.

Without being asked, Douggie repaired to his room. ‘Good boy,’ said Douglas.

Douglas had never seen Gerda Taube so animated – rather to his alarm, she was smiling broadly. As he sat down next to her, he had to remind himself not to get swept up in her excitement. He must treat her as an informant, not a co-conspirator. ‘I take it he was at the cafe?’ he said to her.

‘I sat at the table right next to them.’ Fräulein Taube still sounded slightly breathless. ‘They didn’t notice me, I’m certain!’

‘Well done.’

‘They weren’t straightforward in what they said.’ Now she was frowning. ‘They spoke about something being moved. Money, I think. But nobody knows where it’s gone. And someone has disappeared, and somebody else has found out about that.’

‘That’s very good,’ said Douglas. It tallied exactly with what he had told Brandt earlier in the day about progress on the investigation.

‘There was something else. The man, the one that he met with, asked how morale was in Berlin. And he smiled, and said, “It’s difficult even for the loyalists to remain committed when the leadership is under attack.”’

Douglas caught himself in a strange, stilted gesture with one hand, as though he could make her unsay what she had just told him. Brandt’s answer referred to Huth, of course, and the situation with Mühlbach. But it could all too easily be mistaken for a statement undermining the political leadership of Germany. Just as Huth had reminded him, people could be locked up even for such minor criticism. ‘You know that you mustn’t tell anyone about this?’ he said to Fräulein Taube.

‘Of course not, Herr Archer! You can trust me.’

Douglas hoped for both their sakes that her resolve would never be tested. He took out a file. ‘Could you tell me about the man he met? Do you recognise him here?’

Fräulein Taube looked taken aback, as well she might. The file contained a great number of photographs, dug up from one archive or another, showing former associates of General Kellerman over the decades and his current known allies within the SS. Douglas felt his throat tighten as he handed it to Fräulein Taube, and he could not help swallowing thickly. It had taken considerable resolve on his part even to borrow the file, in full knowledge of what Huth might do if he found out. Back in his bedroom was the information that he did not want Fräulein Taube to see: the names of the men, the biographical details, and everything else that Huth had dug up on each of them. Huth was utterly meticulous, and it was all the more astonishing when one remembered that he had compiled these records in his limited spare time.

‘It was this man. This was who he met.’ Fräulein Taube indicated, turning the file around to show Douglas. He recognised the man, he thought – Bernhard somebody, an old colleague of Kellerman’s from the police force in Leipzig. ‘Excellent,’ he told her. ‘We’ll write this down.’

Later, with Fräulein Taube returned home and Douggie in bed, Douglas went to write up his notes. Idly, he flicked through the file again. It made him uncomfortable – all that energy and effort on Huth’s part, fuelled purely by hatred of Kellerman. It was an aspect of his character that Douglas did not like to dwell on.

He sighed. He had found the Germans’ victory over England all the more humiliating as he had come to learn of the sheer amount of time that they spent fighting amongst themselves, plotting and backstabbing, furthering their own private schemes. Huth was an extreme example, but even then, there were plenty worse than him.

Douglas had always told himself that the British, and he in particular, were not capable of such behaviour. Now, sitting in his own home surrounded by the evidence that he had collected, he was forced to admit that it was yet another thing he had been wrong about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The complicated history of Schleswig-Holstein
> 
> The novel mentions that Huth grew up in Schleswig-Holstein and his family moved to Berlin after World War I, when the territory became part of Denmark. North Schleswig (now South Jutland) belonged to Germany from 1866, but in a plebiscite in 1920 voted in favour of returning to Denmark. Huth probably grew up in a North Schleswig town like Aabenraa or Sønderborg, where support for remaining part of Germany was relatively high.
> 
> The town of Kolding is further north, and was never within German territory, but would not have been far from the Danish-German border during 1866-1920.


	17. Chapter 17

Hauptsturmführer Lehmann had a policeman’s instincts. He cornered Douglas on his way back from the office where the typists sat, and commenced his entreaties that Douglas should come out drinking with the rest of the officers that evening.

‘It’s a kind offer, but I don’t make for an ideal drinking companion,’ said Douglas, politely trying to step past Lehmann. ‘No-one can relax – they assume I’ll report everything back to the Standartenführer.’

Lehmann gave a small cough, pushed his spectacles further up his nose, and edged into Douglas’s path. Douglas could not shake the feeling that he used the same technique with suspects, making himself non-threatening while simultaneously ensuring that they could not go anywhere.

‘Always safest to assume that everybody reports back to everybody, I find,’ said Lehmann pleasantly. ‘You mustn’t let that stop you.’

Lehmann was less rigid of bearing than most of the other officers, and he wore his sandy-coloured hair a little longer. Although he was in his early forties, he had not yet progressed beyond the rank of captain. But Huth seemed to like him. Lehmann had been a police officer for years before the service had been subsumed by the Gestapo and SD, and had even stumbled across Kellerman earlier in his career. Douglas suspected that he and Huth had bonded over dislike of a common enemy. It was highly likely that Lehmann had provided much of Huth’s information on Kellerman’s associates.

‘It’s Probst’s birthday,’ said Lehmann. ‘It’s expected that we celebrate. Don’t let him get it into his head that you’re snubbing him.’ He gave as much of a wry smile as anyone dared, in this place.

Douglas looked at him. When he first arrived in Berlin he had resented Lehmann’s advice on protocol, but he had come to realise that the older man had identified him as a kindred spirit, and intended only to help. Besides, Douglas just about trusted himself to get drunk with Lehmann. At worst it might result in wistful reminiscences of times past, when they were permitted to catch real criminals instead of enemies of the state.

‘I suppose I shouldn’t hurt Major Probst’s feelings,’ said Douglas. Lehmann smiled.

If Douglas had expected that SD officers would conduct themselves with more decorum than the rest of their colleagues in the SS, then he was wrong. Probst had chosen a bar frequented by civilians as well as the SS, and the officers meant everyone to be aware of their presence. Once the first toasts had been drunk, Douglas sat with Lehmann and some of the other older officers, talking as quietly as they could above the noise of their colleagues, in mutual knowledge that each of them was plotting his escape from the evening.

At times when conversation trailed off, or when Lehmann got up to apologise to yet another of the waitresses on behalf of a fellow officer, Douglas found himself fantasising about returning to London. He imagined a future in which he would never have to see a single one of these men again; a future spent out of this uniform. It was garnering him fewer dirty looks than usual – no civilian wanted to antagonise a group of SS officers – but he could sense the silent hatred radiating from the rest of the room.

More than one officer had made his excuses and left, and Douglas could sense his conversation with Lehmann drawing ever closer to the wistful reminiscences stage, when Lehmann looked across the room and cursed softly.

Unmistakeable by his great girth, Gruppenführer Mühlbach was making towards the table, flanked by a few of his associates. He flapped his hands, indicating that the rest of the officers should not stand for him – and betraying his already advanced stage of inebriation.

Probst himself was more than drunk enough to feel honoured that the general had come to celebrate with him, and beamed at Mühlbach’s noisy congratulations. But once the drinks had been brought, Mühlbach’s attention wandered, and he sought out a new source of entertainment. He noticed Douglas and Lehmann, sitting slightly apart from the others.

Douglas had to admire Lehmann’s composure, especially considering how much he had already drunk. He must have wanted with every fibre of his being to shrink away from Mühlbach, but his face betrayed nothing as the general deposited himself in the chair next to him. Faced by them both, Douglas felt a little as though he were being interrogated.

‘A pleasure, Gruppenführer,’ Lehmann was saying, in response to Mühlbach pawing him about the shoulders. Mülbach’s gaze alighted on Douglas, and a topic of conversation occurred to him. He prodded Lehmann in the chest, indicating the medal ribbon on his tunic. A previous consultation with Douggie – the closest thing that he had to an expert on such matters – had informed Douglas that Lehmann must have won the Iron Cross at some point during the first war.

‘You fought, of course, Lehmann,’ said Mühlbach. ‘Like a good Prussian.’

‘In the last years of the war, I had that honour,’ said Lehmann cautiously.

Mühlbach indicated the ribbons on his own tunic. ‘Joined up the minute war was declared,’ he said, as though suggesting that he deserved congratulation for being several years older than Lehmann. ‘But it doesn’t matter, eh? We were all on the same side.’

‘Indeed,’ said Lehmann.

In Douglas’s direction, Mühlbach said contemptuously, ‘You didn’t fight, of course.’

‘No. I was six years old,’ said Douglas, before he could stop himself. The alcohol had loosened his tongue. He reminded himself that he must control his temper, whatever Mühlbach said. Even if he mentioned his father.

‘Huth didn’t fight either,’ said Mühlbach with satisfaction. ‘Too young. You know he’d never even fired a gun before he joined us? Yes, a man of that kind. Couldn’t stand the sight of blood. The look on his face, the night we shot the Brownshirts, like he wanted to run to his mother! I can see it now. He’d never seen a man killed – he didn’t understand how things are. Still doesn’t, if you ask me.’

Lehmann was gazing down at the table with a fixed grimace, as though to make clear that he had no intention of asking Mühlbach his opinion. Mühlbach grinned at Douglas. If the man had not been so drunk, Douglas would have sworn that he was daring him to say something.

‘It is a great accolade for SS training, then, that he has won so many medals in the intervening years,’ said Douglas.

Lehmann’s head jerked up. Mühlbach barked in laughter. ‘Loyal to him, aren’t you? Well, that’s what he took you on for, I suppose – to massage his ego. Amongst other things, I’m sure.’

‘Thus far, the Standartenführer has given me to understand that my career as a detective was his reason for recruiting me to his staff,’ said Douglas levelly. Somehow, the experience of being insulted by Mühlbach – a man who had never done an honest day’s work in his life if Douglas had ever seen one – had lent him unexpected courage.

With slow, deliberate movements, Mühlbach took out his cigarettes. Waving away Lehmann’s attempts to light one for him, he came around the table to make Douglas do it.

Mühlbach sat down next to Douglas, uncomfortably close, just as he had with Lehmann. ‘A detective in _London,’_ he said, glancing sidelong at Douglas’s face. ‘A city so full of undesirable elements that I doubt you could move without tripping over them. People don’t forget that, you know. He might have put you in one of our uniforms, but that doesn’t mean anything. People know where you came from.’

Up close to Mühlbach, inhaling his cigarette smoke and looking into his small eyes in a way that he normally managed to avoid, Douglas wished that he had not let the conversation progress to this point. If Mühlbach really felt like it, he could probably get rid of Douglas for good before Huth arrived back in Berlin to stop him. And yet Douglas had no choice but to see the situation through.

‘Well, we all have a past, don’t we?’ he said.

This struck a chord with Mühlbach to a greater extent than he could have hoped. Halted in the act of aiming a sarcastic slap to Douglas’s shoulder, the general froze. He took his arm back, glaring angrily at Lehmann, who was watching with owlish interest.

‘That’s right,’ said Mühlbach softly. ‘But we don’t all have a future.’

Then, at once, he got up and left, followed closely by his aides. It seemed like a miracle, albeit one that Douglas feared he might pay a high price for.

Once conversation had resumed, Lehmann said quietly, ‘Good man, standing up to him! He’d walk all over you otherwise.’ He had been seeking solace in his beer while Mühlbach was present, and some of his usually staid manner had dissipated. In a clumsy attempt at reassurance, he said, ‘It’s not true, I’m sure, what he said. In time, no-one will mind all that much that you came from London. Not everyone shares his views on the English – and it’s all part of the trouble he’s stirring up against Huth.’

‘Trouble to do with me?’ said Douglas.

Lehmann snorted. ‘Oh, Mühlbach’s saying anything he can think of. Telling the Reichsführer that Huth’s not making progress, that someone else should take over his work, if you get my meaning. And that business with the physicist, the one who killed himself. He claimed that Huth was too soft on the man – because he was a scientist, because he was English. And with Huth having brought you back here from London…’

Through his amusement at hearing Huth described as “soft”, Douglas felt a twinge of annoyance. ‘Hang on,’ he said to Lehmann. ‘I’m a police officer. You make it sound as though I’m some waif or stray he decided to adopt.’

Lehmann waved a hand, anxious not to have caused offence. ‘No, no – I didn’t mean it like that! And Mühlbach’s an opportunist, that’s all. He stayed away in the past because Professor Springer had the ear of the Reichsführer, and he and Springer were enemies. Now that the professor’s dead, Mühlbach’s out for anything he can get.’ He picked up his beer again. ‘But with any luck he’ll be sent to London before long, and we’ll be rid of him.’

‘What?’ said Douglas slowly.

‘Mühlbach would be more than satisfied with Kellerman’s job instead,’ said Lehmann. ‘A lot of the talk against Kellerman is coming from him as well, you know. He says that an Anglophile is the last person you’d want running the SS in Britain. He’s probably right, as it happens. He’s trying to persuade Himmler that he needs a new man there, to restore order.’

Douglas imagined the sort of order that Mühlbach would be planning to inflict on London. And he could well be given the chance – the latest reports from Scotland Yard made it sound like a couple more perceived failings on Kellerman’s part would lose him his job. Douglas reached for his beer, and began to drink it very quickly.

‘Far too few summary executions in England, that’s Mühlbach’s line,’ mused Lehmann. ‘He’s been sent all over in the occupied territories, and that’s his usual diagnosis. Still – and I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Archer – when it comes to having Mühlbach anywhere nearby, better them than us.’

 

When Douglas woke on Saturday, at first he thought that he had nothing worse to contend with than the after-effects of the previous evening’s drinking. Then he remembered. For a while he lay on his back, wishing that he was still asleep.

The apartment was silent. Douggie had gone to spend the weekend at a schoolmate’s house: Martin, a shy boy whose father worked for the Propaganda Ministry. Douglas had baulked at the idea at first, but he knew that he could not deny Douggie the opportunity to make friends.

Safe in the knowledge that no-one would disturb him, Douglas took out the evidence that he had compiled: the statements from the café owner and Fräulein Taube, and the records of Brandt’s movements. He spread it across the dining table to look at it all together. Back in London, he might not have considered it sufficient basis for a case against Brandt, but here it would be more than enough. He need only take it to Huth when he returned on Monday, and Brandt would be in a cell before the afternoon, perhaps with Kellerman’s contact not far behind. And if Huth took his case to the Reichsführer immediately, he might even succeed in securing Kellerman’s arrest before he could make any attempt at self-preservation.

But then, Mühlbach would be sent to London. Mühlbach, who hated the English, who had always found terror to be the most effective method when dealing with any occupied population. Douglas had no reason to doubt what others said about him: when even SS officers considered someone fanatical, he was invariably just as appalling as everyone claimed. Mühlbach could not be permitted to take control of the SS in Britain. And the most expedient way to avoid that ever happening was to let him have Huth’s job.

Douglas went cold at the thought, as though he secretly believed that Huth could sense his notions of betrayal, even from afar. What was worse, he knew that Huth did not deserve to be betrayed. He had disrupted Douglas’s life in London, that was true, but he had also offered him a way out when Kellerman threatened to make things even worse. He might be self-serving, but he had kept his word to Douglas.

Shaking his head, Douglas tried to quash these thoughts. _Don’t be sentimental, Archer,_ Huth would have said to him. He must focus on his future, and Douggie’s. And even if Huth’s fall from grace destabilised the life that they had made for themselves here, perhaps that would be a necessary sacrifice. It would make Douglas’s coming to Berlin something more than an act of selfishness; it might begin to atone for the deaths of Mayhew and the others, and for Farrow, and all the far worse atrocities that he knew that he was lingering at the periphery of.

But not such a sacrifice after all, Douglas reminded himself bitterly, if he responded to Kellerman’s overtures and tried to find himself a place back in London. Was it really a chance that he could pass up? He imagined Kellerman full of gratitude, favouring him with a fatherly smile once again, letting him return to his old job. He would not be allowed to leave the SS – but people would be willing to forget a surprising amount once he was no longer walking around in uniform, he was certain of it.

Douglas stood up. For once, he ought to act hastily. If he destroyed the evidence, now, then he could not change his mind – there would be no risk of him weakening when Huth returned. The action went against all his instincts, but if he could only force himself…

He stopped dead. He had let the idea of life back in London seduce him, but he had forgotten that he would need a bargaining chip. Kellerman knew about the financial allegations that Huth was assembling, and would want to be certain that all evidence was destroyed before welcoming Douglas back into the fold. But he did not know about this. Whatever happened to Huth, Kellerman could not risk Himmler finding out that he had been spying on a member of his staff. Blackmail was something to which Douglas had believed that he would never stoop – but he knew that he would do it willingly if it ensured his and Douggie’s future.

Fine. He would keep the evidence for now, but he would not present it to Huth. His inaction would in itself be enough to jeopardise the Standartenführer’s position. And if he found some excuse to delay the next stages of the Kellerman investigation, then there was no risk of Huth acting against him in the meantime.

As he filed the evidence away again and locked it in the drawer of his desk, Douglas forced himself to believe that he had made a decision, rather than simply saved one for later.


	18. Chapter 18

Huth looked exhausted when he arrived back on Monday. Douglas had always imagined that Himmler might be one of the less tiring Nazi leaders to spend time with – he favoured light meals, limited alcohol, and early bedtimes. It would be far worse, surely, to be at the beck and call of Hitler, or even Goebbels or Göring? But maybe it was Himmler’s quiet relentlessness that had got to Huth, both the oddness of his ideas and his dogmatic belief in them. Who knew what bizarre theories he had expounded upon at length over the past two weeks?

Douglas found Huth in the act of opening his mail. As Douglas approached his desk, he folded up the letter that he was reading and gathered himself with an obvious effort. ‘Archer?’

Perhaps it was conditioning; or fear; or perhaps something else, but Douglas nearly told him everything. So close was he to saying the words, _Brandt is spying for Kellerman_ that for a moment he stood there speechless. Then he found himself talking at immense speed, rushing through his pre-planned report to Huth to stop himself from saying anything that he did not intend.

But he realised that, far from his usual penetrating gaze, Huth was barely concentrating. It was a relief, of course, but not what he had expected. ‘Standartenführer, is there anything that you require at this time?’ Douglas said uncertainly.

Deep down, he had thought that Huth would drop the formalities and tell him about the talks with the Russians, or demand to know what Mühlbach had been up to. Instead, he got a continuation of the same, slightly blank stare. ‘Not at the moment, Archer,’ said Huth, and returned to his reading – a clear invitation for Douglas to leave the office.

It was the evening before Douglas went back to look in on Huth. He found him at one end of the large table where they sat for briefings. For once the surface was entirely bare – apart from a bottle and a glass. Huth was leaning back in his chair, his collar loosened, his eyes unfocused.

Given the hour, Douglas expected that he would receive his usual instruction to go home. ‘Standartenführer, is there anything that I can do?’ he said.

Huth looked over at him, and blinked. ‘Come in and have a drink, Archer.’

Douglas wished desperately that he had added, _except sit and drink with you_ to the end of his question. But there was no point in refusing; Huth would only have told him that it was an order, just as before. He looked carefully at the level of the liquid in the bottle, and more carefully at Huth; and concluded that he had not been sitting here with the brandy long. He was tired, certainly, and anxious for someone to talk to, but nowhere near inebriated.

‘Thank you,’ said Douglas, shutting the door behind him. He found a tumbler on a side table, poured himself as small a measure of brandy as he reasonably could, and took a seat a respectful distance from Huth. Huth stared at him, swirling his drink around in his glass with a small smile on his face.

‘Your trip was successful?’

Huth wore a narrow, closed expression, like a child trying to be mysterious. ‘I met up with an old friend,’ he said. ‘Paul von Heim. He was in Poland with the Army’s delegation – he works for the Abwehr.’

The Abwehr was the intelligence service of the German Army. ‘I’m surprised you have a friend there,’ said Douglas.

‘He’s a good man – we knew each other at university in Berlin.’ Huth laughed softly. ‘These Prussian military families do occasionally let their sons acquire an education before they send them off to the academy to learn how to be officers.’

‘I thought you hated the Army.’

‘Paul is a good man,’ said Huth again, and fell silent. Douglas waited, knowing that he was only too eager to continue. Huth sipped his drink. ‘The thing is, the Army are quite anxious that no-one find out about the small matter of their collaboration with the British resistance.’

‘So you’re blackmailing them?’ said Douglas.

Huth affected to take offence – probably masking genuine annoyance. ‘I knew I could rely on you to make it sound sordid. Listen: the Abwehr are fighting for their very survival. They know they are at constant risk of being dissolved, and their duties undertaken by our own security forces. But, when that matter arises again, I have told them that I will oppose it, so long as they give me what I want. And the Army are overstretched in Britain – Kellerman’s laxity has helped us there. They might be glad to be rid of the nuclear programme.’

Douglas was not convinced that such a pact would succeed, considering the entrenched hatred between the SD and the Abwehr. Besides, not even he would have trusted Huth to keep his word and defend the Abwehr once the Army had found a way of handing the nuclear programme to the SS without losing face.

Huth guessed Douglas’s doubts. He shrugged. ‘It might not work. But something must be done – the Reichsführer wants to see results.’ He picked up his glass again. ‘Unfortunately, he’s an ideological purist, so I can’t update him on my progress so far. You should have seen him trying to hide his disgust at being in a room with so many Russians! He doesn’t understand that negotiation makes for strange bedfellows.’ Huth smiled at Douglas, raising his glass to him, just as he had all those months ago at Brook Street. ‘But you understand that, don’t you, Archer?’

Douglas drank, though his stomach was roiling. Even after all this time he still found it impossible to judge how much Huth knew – or guessed – of the things that he would have liked to keep secret. He decided to seize the opportunity that Huth had provided. If he was going to recall the deal that they had struck in London, then perhaps it was time to ask whether he was upholding his end of the bargain. And if Huth’s career was in danger, Douglas was entitled to plan his own next move – Huth himself would have agreed with that.

‘Since it concerns my immediate future, as well as yours,’ said Douglas, ‘you might tell me what you think the Reichsführer would do if he found out you’d been meeting with the Abwehr. A simple rebuke? Handing the whole project to Mühlbach? Demotion? Execution?’ He tried to keep his voice level, and only partly succeeded.

Huth was refilling his glass. ‘You don’t have the first idea, Archer,’ he said. He did not look up as he spoke, but his voice had changed. The customary arrogance that he used to deflect any question or criticism had dropped from him, suddenly, like armour that he found himself too tired to carry on wearing.

‘You don’t have the first idea,’ said Huth again, leaning forward on the table and addressing the brandy in his glass. ‘You come into my office and make faces every time I give you an order, and then you surpass yourself by behaving as though _I_ killed that idiot, Farrow. I only have to offer you a drink and you look at me as though I’ve hit you – don’t deny it, you know it’s true! What you don’t realise is everything I do to –’ He stopped, and looked at the hand holding the glass, as though noticing for the first time that he was gripping it with force enough to make his knuckles turn white. Slowly, he raised the glass to his lips, sitting back in his chair. ‘You don’t realise what these people are like,’ he said, more calmly.

For all Huth’s subdued histrionics, Douglas could not help but feel a twinge of cruel amusement. Huth had rebuked him once for hypocrisy, and yet this was extraordinary behaviour, to rise high in the SS and then start complaining that the other members were unpleasant. He looked at Huth, slumped in his chair, gazing across the room. Perhaps he was on his way out anyway; perhaps any delay surrounding the Kellerman investigation would do little but speed up the inevitable. That, thought Douglas, might be the best outcome for all concerned.

‘Mühlbach hated me the second that he laid eyes on me,’ said Huth. ‘Because I was educated – especially because I had been educated abroad. He thinks that anyone able to converse in a foreign language is un-German, so you can imagine how well my father’s profession went down with him. Men like Hans Mühlbach think they’re entitled to their positions just because they hospitalised a few Communists in a brawl back in the nineteen-twenties; because they stood next to Himmler at some parade or another. But they’d never have got further than squabbling in their beer halls if the movement hadn’t started to recruit people with an ounce of intelligence.’

‘So you’ve only got yourself to blame for Mühlbach finally making his way to Berlin, really,’ said Douglas, chancing a weak joke.

Huth smiled, but there was true misery in his eyes. ‘We can blame Springer for going and dying,’ he said. ‘He had the distinction of being hated by Mühlbach long before I did.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps that was the only reason Springer ever took an interest in me – to annoy someone that he disliked.’

‘If I had to guess, I would say it was the other way around,’ said Douglas. ‘Springer saw that you had potential, and Mühlbach hated you both all the more when he developed it.’

Infinitesimally, Huth’s smile grew warmer. ‘I’ll give you some advice, Archer,’ he said. ‘You need someone to support you against people like Mühlbach until you can learn to be like them, at least enough for them to leave you alone. You don’t like that, but it’s true.’

Douglas’s glass was empty. He got up, walked a few steps to where Huth was sitting, and took the chair just across from him, so that they were facing each other over the corner of the table. Huth raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He motioned with the bottle above Douglas’s glass, looking quizzical.

‘Thank you,’ said Douglas.

When Huth had poured his drink, he said, ‘Mühlbach isn’t even interested in the nuclear project, you know, not really. He only wants to take control as a way of spitting on Springer’s grave. And, of course, so that he can drop a bomb on York.’

Douglas could not tell if he meant it. Huth flitted so easily between being facetious and deadly serious. ‘You said Newcastle before.’

‘Yes, but Mühlbach’s a philistine – he’d probably choose York. And I said I _didn’t_ want to drop a bomb on Newcastle, if you recall.’

‘But you think that Mühlbach does?’

‘It might appeal to him. He really does dislike the British – sorry, Archer, I know you’ll find that terribly hurtful. And he has his military ambitions too, I don’t doubt. He’s certainly trying all he can to turn Himmler against me and take the work for himself. Kellerman’s spy isn’t helping matters either.’

Douglas felt his face, even his body, seem to freeze in position. When he spoke, he could barely get the words out. ‘A spy?’ he said.

‘Stands to reason there must be one in the department. How else to explain his moving money around like that, and getting rid of our informant? And his timing – he knows what Mühlbach is doing. The two of them aren’t allies; they didn’t co-ordinate this. Kellerman has waited until my position is weakened.’

This was as close as Huth had ever come to admitting that there was some truth in Kellerman’s threats about his family records. ‘Will we try to find the spy?’ said Douglas.

‘No,’ said Huth. He was staring Douglas in the face.

Of course, thought Douglas, who else was Huth likely to suspect? No-one else but him was supposed to have access to the files. He tried to prevent himself from seeking any hint in Huth’s eyes – just to do so might give him away. Shakily, he said, ‘Standartenführer, I would never –’

‘Archer…’ With a sudden, clumsy movement, Huth reached for Douglas’s forearm. His hand covered up the SD insignia on his sleeve, the mark that made even fellow SS look at him with dislike and suspicion. ‘Archer, I know it isn’t you. You wouldn’t spy for Kellerman – I know you better than that. But I can’t tear up my own department trying to find out who it is. It would be used against me, taken as further evidence of my – my alleged incompetence.’

‘I understand,’ said Douglas.

Huth took his hand away. As though to divert attention from how long he had allowed it to linger, he studied the face of his watch. ‘It’s getting late. Will your son have gone to bed?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You should get back and see him.’ Huth reached for the bottle again. Douglas considered advising him against it, but felt certain he would be ignored. As he was getting up from his chair, Huth said, ‘Douggie is well?’

‘He’s settling in, thank you.’

Huth produced his most melancholy smile yet. ‘Well, at least there’s some good news.’


	19. Chapter 19

Huth always felt obliged to follow any display of weakness with a spate of unpleasant behaviour, as though asserting his authority. On Wednesday, he broke with his usual habit of inviting Douglas to his office when he had need to shout at him, and instead appeared in front of his desk, waving a sheaf of paper. It was the latest report that Douglas had submitted on the Kellerman investigation.

‘What the hell is this?’ said Huth. Across the room, Brandt kept his eyes on his work.

Douglas did not even have to ask what facet of the report Huth objected to; the whole thing was pathetically meagre – and not by accident. But he knew that he could not stall for time by producing content-free reports any longer. Soon, Huth would become angry enough to physically assault him, or would revise his belief that Douglas could not possibly be Kellerman’s spy.

‘Our people in Zürich have been unresponsive,’ said Douglas. ‘I’m waiting for further details from them.’

Huth’s pale eyes became unusually wide and blank, almost as though he had been stunned. Then he placed a hand to his forehead. ‘It’s quite remarkable that you haven’t realised this by now,’ he said, ‘but I’ll explain it to you again: people aren’t unresponsive to us. They _aren’t permitted_ to be unresponsive to us. The only reason they’re still walking around freely is because we’ve chosen to let them.’ He took his hand away from his face and slammed his palm onto Douglas’s desk. ‘How many times, before you get that through your skull? So get on the phone – assuming you can remember how to use one of those – and tell them what I’ve just told you. Is that clear, Archer?’ As he talked, his voice had been rising steadily in volume, and now he was almost shouting. ‘And if you still can’t find out where’s he’s put that money, with all the time and resources you’ve had to throw at the task, then maybe I’ll send you to Switzerland to look for it personally, and find myself a new assistant!’

Douglas said nothing. He had slept badly the past few nights – tormented by the awareness of issues left unresolved – and he was in no frame of mind for a verbal mauling from Huth. _That’s right,_ he thought sullenly, _stand there and yell about the investigation, right in front of the office spy, you bloody idiot._

Huth always got like this when he was under a lot of strain; he became careless, stopped observing his own rules of secrecy and security. Even now, he had passed by the office on his way out somewhere. From the way that he was dressed, he was taking his motorcycle, and that meant that he was going alone. Douglas would have bet money that he was meeting with Paul von Heim of the Abwehr, trying to further his plans to take over the nuclear project. He was not exactly being subtle, thought Douglas: anyone could make the same assumptions as he had and wonder where Huth was off to. Perhaps Himmler would somehow hear of today’s meeting, putting an end to both Huth’s machinations and Douglas’s agonies of indecision.

But for now Huth was here, and still looked as though he was wondering which piece of furniture to overturn first. In his most placatory tone, Douglas said, ‘Standartenführer, I will see to it immediately. You’ll find an update on your desk in the morning.’

‘I’d better,’ said Huth. ‘Or you’ll be going somewhere far less pleasant than Zürich.’

He turned away. He was nearly out of the room when Douglas saw him give the smallest of half-glances back over his shoulder, with something of the expression that he had worn a couple of nights ago, talking in his office. But he swept out without saying anything else. Douglas sat back, emitting a sigh. Huth was not making any of this easier for him.

Brandt startled Douglas by the mere act of giving a soft laugh. ‘He’s always been difficult,’ he said. ‘Five years I’ve known him now, and he hasn’t slowed down with age. Or learned any manners, for that matter.’

By Brandt’s usual standard, this was an astonishing attack on his commanding officer. Douglas could not hide his amazement.

‘You learn to take everything that he says less seriously, that’s all,’ said Brandt. ‘Or else it drives you mad, and you find you can’t stand it any longer.’

A recollection crept over Douglas: Kellerman, back at Scotland Yard, dispensing false sympathy when he learned about Huth’s demands on his subordinates. He had sounded an awful lot like Brandt did right at this moment. Of course, Brandt must know that Kellerman had written to Douglas; and perhaps now he had been instructed to make further overtures, more hints that he might profit by getting away from Huth.

‘I suppose it is a job that entails a great deal of stress,’ said Douglas, neglecting to mention whether he meant Huth’s job or his own.

‘Sturmbannführer Probst is a man more after my own heart,’ said Brandt. ‘Far less exhausting to work for.’

‘Very much so,’ said Douglas. He remembered what Huth had once said to him about Probst: _if he moved any slower, he would be travelling backwards._

Brandt sighed. Coming from him, it sounded almost theatrical. ‘It must have been a shock, when you were back in London, having Huth arrive. Or perhaps, already, you were not contented in your job there?’

Douglas said, ‘On the contrary. I had an excellent working relationship with my superior, General Kellerman.’

Brandt looked over at Douglas, and then let his attention wander lazily onto the report lying in front of him. On his face there was a shadow of a smile. ‘We ought to talk more often,’ he said.

Douglas could not form a response at first. Could Brandt have guessed that he was delaying the Kellerman investigation on purpose? It was impossible to know.

‘Yes, we ought to talk,’ he said eventually.

Brandt, expressionless once again, nodded and returned to his work.

 

Douglas always felt the same at the end of an investigation. You took the map down from the wall, removed the photos, filed everything away – and you expected to feel satisfied that the case had been closed successfully. And yet there was that lingering sense of emptiness, even loss. It was like that now, gathering up the evidence against Brandt, placing it in order, knowing that it was all finished with. Douglas picked up the letter that he had received from Kellerman, and put it with the rest.

It remained only for Douglas to return the information that he had taken from Huth’s files. With Huth frustrated almost to the point of taking the investigation back from him, the sooner that he did it the better. Douglas had got up at dawn with this precise task in mind. He had left Huth still hard at work last night, and it was unlikely that he would be in the office much before normal time. And once the files were returned, Douglas could use the Kellerman report as an excuse for being in the building so early.

The corridors were deserted, but Douglas knew by now that one could never be too careful. He sequestered the files in his desk and went to Huth’s office, where he knocked on the door. From inside came a soft whisper of movement, of rustling paper.

It was the worst of luck, thought Douglas, even knowing Huth as he did. What was he doing here at this time? Now he would have to risk keeping the files at work and returning them next time Huth went out.

‘Come in!’ Huth sounded disoriented, as though speaking through a bad headache.

All at once Douglas was mortified for him. Could he have been here all night drinking – had he given up so entirely that he did not care if someone found him in this state?

Douglas did not want to enter the room. Seeing Huth brought low was a horrible, distasteful idea; it made him think of the jaguar at the zoo, caged and apathetic. For the first time since they had met, he felt protective of his commanding officer. Let him lose his position, if that was the way that things had to be; let him take his talents and use them elsewhere; but spare his reputation. Douglas knew that it would destroy Huth to have his superiors rebuke him for weakness and indiscipline; to have his subordinates whisper about him as he passed by.

But at least he had found Huth before anyone else could. Whatever else happened, all of that could still be avoided. He opened the door.

He was expecting to find Huth crumpled in one of the chairs, and it was a moment before Douglas noticed that he was over by the window, stretching his arms above his head. He turned and gave Douglas a vague smile.

‘I fell asleep,’ said Huth, with almost childlike simplicity. ‘I was working – I have a lot to catch up on. I must have dropped off sometime after three, I think.’

Douglas realised that he had not been drinking at all. There was no sign of it anywhere in the office, no scent of it on his breath. Huth’s uniform was all in order; his hair was still neatly combed. The desk lamp was on, shining onto a stack of papers. On the large table lay an open envelope, and a number of documents arranged in a semi-circle.

Something was not right, though. Huth was too calm. He should have been bombarding Douglas with suspicious questions by now, asking why he was here at this hour. He should have been angry with himself for doing anything quite so indolent as taking an unscheduled nap. But for the first time since Douglas had met him, he did not seem to have anything to say about anything. Douglas’s gaze strayed back towards the table, and hurriedly away again.

‘No,’ said Huth. ‘You’re welcome to look. You may as well – soon everyone will know about it. And it must be the most effort Kellerman’s put towards anything in a good long while, we have to give him that. It would be a shame not to review it in full.’

Douglas sat beside Huth at the base of the semi-circle. ‘They arrived yesterday. All copies of course. Kellerman has the originals somewhere nice and safe.’ Huth scanned the table. ‘Where to start? Oh, here.’ He placed a large sheet of paper in front of Douglas. It was a family tree. ‘He’ll have got the people in Genealogy to do this for him,’ said Huth. ‘I never could imagine Kellerman not needing help with his homework.’

Huth’s name was at the bottom of the document. An only child, and no first cousins on his father’s side. His mother’s family was not shown, and in fact, it was his paternal grandmother’s family that dominated the page. Douglas read the name. Margrethe Lund, born in 1848. She had an older brother, Niels. Next to his name, and those of all his descendants, someone had added annotations. _Diagnosed aged 47; Diagnosed aged 38._

Huth handed Douglas some more documents. The one on top was a poor-quality copy of some very old notes, written in an illegibly cramped hand. Douglas turned to the next pages, struggled manfully to decipher them for a few moments, and then realised the chief source of his difficulty. ‘These are in Danish.’

Huth blinked at him, as though he had forgotten that not everyone could read Danish. ‘They all say much the same thing. Old Great-uncle Niels there, his son and daughter and his grandchildren all had an unfortunate habit of falling ill as they approached middle age. The mind was the first to go, as I understand it; little things, like forgetfulness. Then the physical problems. Degenerative, so what starts as simple clumsiness ends in loss of co-ordination, balance, and so on. Cognitive decline...’ Huth listed the symptoms dispassionately, raking through the papers sent by Kellerman. ‘Here, Professor Gregson has compiled a very detailed report, if you want to look – he’s seen many cases before, so he knows far more about it than I ever did.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Douglas.

‘It’s cruel, you know,’ said Huth contemplatively. ‘When Niels fell ill, his children were already adults. And by the time they realised it was hereditary, they had children of their own.’

Douglas had been studying the family tree. But it’s not in your branch of the family. Your grandmother never developed it?’

‘Not as far as we know. But she died of influenza, and so did my uncle.’ Huth placed a finger next to each name on the page. ‘There’s always a chance that it never had time to manifest. And my father, well, I’m sure he has every intention of outliving us all. He’s far too stubborn to be put off by something like a hereditary disability. But Professor Gregson is adamant that he has seen it skip a generation.’

‘But no-one knows anything for sure, do they?’ Douglas had an urge to fold the family tree back into quarters and find a wastepaper basket to put it in. ‘So I don’t see how –’

‘Archer, it’s enough, all right? God knows, Himmler is probably already looking for a pretext to get rid of me. He will hate the idea of having a close associate who is seen to be… compromised in this way.’

‘Heinrich Himmler,’ said Douglas, ‘looks as though a strong gust of wind would blow him over, as my own grandmother would have put it.’

Huth smiled. ‘And that’s why he needs to surround himself with men who are everything that he isn’t. Besides, imagine the worry it would cause the poor man, wondering if my every decision might be the result of early-onset senility…’

Douglas could not tell whether Huth really feared that he might one day develop the disease. He supposed that he would have done, in Huth’s position; but of course Huth would never admit to it. ‘Does it kill?’

‘Not quickly. Niels and his children lingered on for ages.’ Huth slid another set of documents in front of Douglas. They were in Danish again, but Douglas could identify what they were without needing to read them. Death certificates, from the hospital at Kolding. 

‘I believe that my second cousins are still living there,’ said Huth. He gathered the documents up, handling them delicately. Respect for his dead relatives, wondered Douglas, or just a compulsion to put everything in order? ‘We didn’t have a lot to do with my grandmother’s family,’ said Huth. ‘It was the war, you know – and they were across the border. After we moved to Berlin, we never even talked about them. But it seems that some ghastly little eugenicist, SS-Sturmbannführer Dr Leiden, produced a report last year about the burden of incurable disease in Denmark. That’s how Kellerman got wind of this – when Leiden asked for permission to conduct a similar survey in Britain.’ Huth gave a short laugh. ‘Of course, the Danes let him produce his report, and then told him where he could stick it. One hopes he will meet with a similar reception in London.’

Douglas, who had heard rumours about what might have befallen the family had they lived in Germany, hoped fervently that Leiden would meet with a cold reception anywhere that he tried to ply his ideas. 

Huth placed the death certificates on the right, at the end of the arc, the final piece of the progression of evidence laid out before them. Huth rested his hands on the edge of the table and surveyed it all. ‘I hadn’t thought about them for years,’ he said. ‘Can you believe that? There’s always been so much that I’ve had to forget about.’

Douglas wanted to say that he understood, but he feared that Huth would round on him, would say, _How could you possibly?_ And perhaps he did not really understand how it had been for Huth, living on ever-shifting sands, perpetually finding that the habits and associations once considered acceptable were now a cause for embarrassment. ‘What will happen now?’ he said.

‘It’s not serious enough to result in expulsion. But the Reichsführer will quietly drop me from his staff, and send me away from Berlin. He’ll find some problem somewhere, and dispatch me to sort it out for him. Paris, perhaps, if I’m lucky. Somewhere in the East if not.’ Huth tried to smile, but failed by some margin. ‘At least my father will be pleased – he’ll hope that people might forget what I am if I’m not working in the same city as him.’

‘Paris is nice,’ said Douglas tonelessly.

At this, Huth mustered a thin smile. ‘I’m glad you think so – you’ll be coming too.’ But then he shook his head, relenting. ‘No. You’re a good officer, no matter how much you pretend not to be. Someone else here will take you on, as long as you are clever about it. Do whatever seems best.’

Douglas did not know how to reply. Perhaps Huth took his silence as overwhelmed gratitude, for he said, ‘We can’t know exactly when Kellerman plans to release this, but he wouldn’t have sent it to me if he didn’t plan to do it soon. After that, things may happen very fast. Speak to Lehmann – he has a lot of contacts, and is likely to keep his job after my departure. Find out what he can do for you.’

‘Thank you, Standartenführer.’ Douglas had the strong feeling that Huth expected him to go and talk to Lehmann immediately, forgetting that it was far too early for him to be in the building yet. He obediently got up to leave; but he looked at Huth again and found that he could not. Almost angrily, Douglas said, ‘Months ago, in London, you told me that you had nearly all the evidence you needed to arrest Kellerman. Why didn’t you finish this back then?’

Huth frowned slightly. ‘We were busy dealing with Mayhew,’ he said. ‘And then I wanted to get you and your son out of London. I thought that Kellerman might act in retaliation, given a chance.’

Douglas’s immediate reaction was disbelief – scorn, even – at the idea that Huth would knowingly render himself vulnerable. He intended to say words to that effect, but they died somewhere on the way to his lips. He watched Huth calmly gathering up the documents. ‘Is that true?’ he said at last.

‘I got your friend Harry out as well, didn’t I?’ said Huth. ‘He would have been far more use to me as an informant than enjoying his retirement in Cumbria.’ He slid the documents back into their envelope, and placed it flat on the table. ‘But believe whatever you like, Archer. It doesn’t make any difference now.’

 

It was hours before Brandt arrived at work. Douglas waited, and he did nothing. He did not work on the Kellerman report; he did not attempt to find a hiding place for the purloined files. He simply sat, and wondered what Huth was doing back in his office, what steps he was taking to prepare for his dismissal.

When Brandt got in, Douglas stopped him before he could get as far as his desk. The man started slightly, as close as he ever came to betraying surprise.

‘It’s time that we talked,’ said Douglas.


	20. Chapter 20

They met at Café Luther. It was a convivial little place when it was full, and Douglas saw why Brandt might have chosen to hold his assignations here. Brandt insisted that they order dinner. ‘Two colleagues sharing a well-deserved meal,’ he murmured to Douglas – a heavy-handed reminder of their subterfuge. 

‘Of course,’ said Douglas. They were both in civilian clothes, not that it did much to alleviate his concerns. He studied the rest of the customers as thoroughly as he could without drawing attention to himself. No-one appeared to have noticed them. A group of young men were chatting noisily over their beer; on a table nearby, a little man was engrossed in his book. Douglas hoped that the café owner, should he appear, would have the good sense not to give any sign that he recognised him.

‘How’s your boy?’ said Brandt as they waited for their food.

‘He’s unwell today – a stomach bug. My housekeeper had to collect him from school early. She’s sitting with him now.’

‘Unused to the climate here, perhaps,’ said Brandt. ‘But at least he might avoid the Berlin winter.’ He left the statement hanging and lapsed into silence. Only when the food had arrived did he look back at Douglas and say briskly. ‘We must discuss terms.’ In his voice there was very little of his usual vagueness.

‘I thought we were two colleagues sharing a meal,’ said Douglas.

‘Why put it off?’ said Brandt. ‘You’re exactly like your boss: concerned first and foremost with your own position. So we’ll discuss terms. You want to get your son back to where he belongs.’

‘And me with him,’ said Douglas, choosing to overlook Brandt’s attempt to provoke him by likening him to Huth.

‘Quite. That can be arranged. You have access to a large amount of information. That goes. All of it disappears – all loose ends tied up. And we would want to check that you had done so.’

‘Naturally.’ Douglas could tell that Brandt had not finished. He was going to demand something else of him, in addition to destroying the evidence of Kellerman’s financial misdealings. ‘And?’ he said.

Brandt placed some food in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. ‘This problem can’t be allowed to come back,’ he said. ‘A problem never stops being a problem until it’s dealt with for good. You’ll have something that will let us get rid of it, permanently.’

‘I’m not sure that I know what you mean.’

‘You don’t think there’s anything you can tell us?’ Seeing Douglas stare blankly back at him sparked a rare moment of temper in Brandt, and he began to speak in a piercing whisper. ‘What rubbish! We both know that he lets degenerates walk free so that he can use them as informants! He’d make a deal with anyone if he thought that he could profit from it. All we need to have him arrested is for you to attest to one of his little conspiracies.’

Douglas said, ‘I’d be implicating myself, don’t you think? Who’s to say that I wouldn’t be considered part of the problem and dealt with accordingly?’

‘There would be no need for that,’ said Brandt, immediately dismissive. ‘Not for a… useful man like you.’

‘Then supposing I did have something to tell you. What could I expect in return?’

Brandt smiled, as though gaining sour pleasure from the fact that Douglas had proven him right. Emboldened by the background chatter muffling their conversation to all but the keenest listener, he said bluntly, ‘A place for your son at the new German school near Highgate. And a position for you on the General’s staff at Scotland Yard. It would be your task to liaise with the native officers, and with your SD colleagues back in Berlin.’ He turned away, gesturing to a waiter to fetch him the bill.

Once they were outside and alone, Douglas said, ‘I suppose General Kellerman has wanted an SD officer whom he could control for quite a while now. Someone to deflect any awkward questions that might arise in future.’

‘No need to sound so ungrateful, Archer.’ Now that they were away from the café, Brandt had dropped almost all pretence that they were friends enjoying an evening together. ‘It’s a far better position than you could ever have hoped for, considering where you started from.’

Their route back lay across the Tiergarten: Brandt to Schöneberg, Douglas to his apartment in Wilmersdorf. Night was beginning to fall. The heavy cloud that had made the daytime airless and humid had passed over, and the western sky was yellow with the last sunlight. 

Brandt stopped abruptly on the path, in between the two pools of light cast by the lamps on either side of him. ‘You accept?’ he said, now in a more conciliatory tone. The words emanated from the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. ‘And you’re not stupid enough to go telling Huth, are you? Because whatever happens, he’ll be gone soon enough. Even if you went and told him every single thing I’ve said to you tonight.’

‘I won’t tell Huth,’ said Douglas. They walked on.

‘I suppose Kellerman first contacted you back in November, when Huth was away in London?’

‘Very good,’ said Brandt, with a dry chuckle.

‘And yet you’re not tempted to ask for a place on his staff yourself, once you’ve helped him get rid of the Standartenführer.’

‘I have no wish to move to London.’ Brandt stopped and looked at Douglas again. He lifted his chin for a second, and Douglas caught a brief glint of the lamplight reflected in his eyes. ‘But my career will go nowhere under Huth,’ he said. ‘Huth has never been interested in our mission. Ensuring unity. A code for us to live by.’

‘Weeding out dissent,’ said Douglas. ‘I do seem to remember hearing a lot about that when they sent me for political training.’

‘And, like Huth, you’re an opportunist. So you sat there nodding, and you took notes, and then you never thought about it again.’ There was no viciousness in Brandt’s voice, just a flat, weary statement of fact. ‘But it’s important, Archer, that’s what you don’t understand. It’s the whole purpose of the SD, and it means nothing to him, never has. When he arrived back from the fighting it meant even less. He decided that his talents were wasted tracking down political criminals – he jumped at the chance to work with Springer on the nuclear project.’

‘The SD is fortunate to have men like you. Men who can maintain focus.’

‘I’d thank you for the compliment, if I believed that you were sincere.’ Brandt did not slacken his pace. ‘That’s what they all say about you in the department: you can’t draw breath without being sarcastic. It’s a tiresome habit of the English.’

‘Joking aside,’ said Douglas, ‘one thing does confuse me. How does such a loyal officer reconcile his SD oaths with spying for General Kellerman?’

Now Brandt stopped, and stood facing Douglas. He was oddly bovine in silhouette; his shoulders squared, his head slightly lowered.

‘You were sworn to secrecy, and yet you’ve been reporting back for months. Telling Kellerman the goings-on in the department – and sending him details of investigations! I might not have been here long, but I gather that’s frowned upon, isn’t it? Sharing information outside the SD? Spying on the Reichsführer’s staff?’

‘You’re arrogant, too,’ said Brandt quietly. ‘A foreigner, quoting my oaths back at me…’

‘Perhaps. But why don’t you shut up and listen. I have proof of what you’ve done. My informant was back there in the café, on the table next to us. And I know all about who you’ve been meeting there. Whatever happens, Huth will receive the evidence – that has been arranged. It will be with him tomorrow.’

‘Is that so?’ said Brandt.

Douglas’s mouth was becoming dry. ‘But you have a wife and child,’ he said. ‘Give yourself up, and I will tell Huth that you came to me this evening and confessed. He need know nothing about what we have discussed – I can fix my informant, make sure that he doesn’t talk. And for your part in uncovering Kellerman’s activities, Huth will be able to offer clemency, at least for your family. You know what will happen to them otherwise.’

Brandt said nothing. He was quite still, as though pinioned in position by the shadows. Douglas took a half-pace towards him. ‘Brandt, please…’

Brandt launched himself forward – not too far, just enough to knock Douglas off balance. Then he ran. By the time that Douglas had righted himself, Brandt was off across the grass, a shadow escaping from the lamplight, about to be swallowed by the darkness under the trees.

Douglas gave chase. Brandt was younger than him, and he had a head start, but Douglas was faster. And, unlike Brandt, he had been engaged in active police work for his entire career, not spending most of his time sitting behind a desk. He gained on the other man rapidly, and when he had narrowed the gap to a few paces, he tackled him. Douglas’s technique was clumsy but effective, and they both sprawled on the grass.

His mistake was his hesitation. Douglas was still deciding how best to stop Brandt from struggling when he was punched in the jaw, followed by a knee to the stomach. Douglas pitched to one side, gasping, and Brandt wriggled out from under him.

Winded, and bleeding from a cut lip, Douglas struggled to his feet. He stared into the dark and was able to discern Brandt, almost part of the night now, pausing to glance back. Douglas tried to shout after him, but it emerged as a croak. He staggered forward a few steps. Brandt reached into his jacket.

Douglas experienced what happened next in three distinct stages, although there was no time between them at all. There was the flash, the noise of the gunshots, and the sensation of the bullets striking him. The pain bloomed out from where he had been hit, spreading in a red haze across the whole right-hand side of his body. Douglas’s legs went from under him, and he dropped onto his knees. But before he plummeted forward to meet the ground, he had time to see the tall figure appear behind Brandt. Lights pierced the darkness. There were barked orders, a sickening crunching sound, a cry of pain.

The next thing that he knew, Douglas’s face was pillowed in the turf. The pain of his wounds was so all-consuming that for a moment he forgot what he was doing there. He could smell the grass and feel its moisture against his cheek – pleasant in a way, inviting him to sink further into unconsciousness.

Then someone lifted him back up again, turned him over, propped him in the crook of their arm. ‘Douglas? Can you hear me?’

It was Harry, thought Douglas; Harry was here. No-one else ever called him by his first name. It was only when the man turned away to yell in German that he realised Huth was holding him.

‘I need to know that you can hear me,’ said Huth. ‘Just nod, don’t say anything.’ He took Douglas’s chin in one hand, turning his face upwards.

Douglas looked into Huth’s pale face; different somehow, transfigured by anxiety. He nodded, though the action seemed to take an age. The moment that he saw him react, Huth settled himself into a kneeling position. He took a handkerchief from somewhere, wadded it up and pressed it to Douglas’s side, where the first bullet had struck. With his right hand he gripped the wound on Douglas’s arm.

Douglas gritted his teeth, feeling certain that he was going to pass out. He realised how much mud and blood Huth must be getting all over his uniform, sitting on the grass with an injured man spread-eagled across him. He would hate that. Still, it was decent of him to keep speaking English. Douglas wondered if Huth thought that he was dying, and had resolved to say some final words in his native tongue. He might be dying, he supposed, but for the moment the idea seemed remote and unimportant.

‘I’m not going to take off your jacket to look more closely.’ Huth’s tone was almost conversational. ‘It’s too dark for me to see. But someone has gone to get help… Anyway, you’re fine – apart from being an incurably stupid bastard, that is, trying to take Brandt in all by yourself. But these are nothing. Grazes, most likely. I’ve seen men get up and walk off a battlefield with far worse.’ He sounded calm, and yet his momentary hesitation allowed Douglas to recognise a reassuring lie.

‘You caught Brandt?’ murmured Douglas. It seemed wrong to pass out without making certain.

‘He’s being held. And he’s quite sore from where I hit him, I imagine. All in all, he’s got far more to worry about than you have.’

Nothing more to discuss then, thought Douglas. Brandt really ought to have accepted his offer rather than shooting him, but it could not be helped.

He did not even realise that he had closed his eyes until Huth said, ‘Still with me, Archer?’

Douglas grunted.

‘Good. Try to stay awake, will you? You’re lucky we found you. And that your housekeeper is so poor at lying. When I phoned to ask after your whereabouts she tried to make up some story.’ Huth chuckled. ‘I was rather impressed. But you must apologise to her on my behalf – I think I frightened her. Give her a pay rise, in fact. She guessed you might have come back to the Tiergarten.’

Huth’s voice had become fainter and fainter as Douglas listened. The immediacy of the pain had subsided, so that now he could feel only a heavy ache and, despite Huth’s attempts to staunch it, the warmth of blood soaking into his clothes.

‘Archer!’ Huth jolted him slightly, making Douglas moan in protest. ‘Are you listening to me? You need to concentrate on what I’m saying. Archer?’

Douglas closed his eyes. He was dimly aware of Huth’s hand on his cheek, slapping him, smearing his own blood across his face. He could not find the strength to make him stop.

The scent of the summer night faded. Douglas was falling, down into a place where it could not reach him. Up there in the Tiergarten, someone was saying his name, over and over again.


	21. Chapter 21

Douglas was conscious of arriving at the hospital. Later, he recalled the impassive face of one of the SS orderlies, who must have seen this sort of thing a thousand times before; he remembered feeling that he had disgraced himself by groaning in pain when they jolted the stretcher getting him into the building; and he remembered Huth’s voice saying, ‘Be careful with him, you oaf!’

After that, he lost all track of time or place. There were only extremes: complete darkness or blinding light; cold or fever; unbearable pain or a total absence of feeling. At times, he knew that people were there, although they rarely spoke to him and when he tried to speak to them they always found a way of shutting him up, usually by putting him to sleep again.

He began to believe that he was being held prisoner, that they thought _he_ was the spy. He realised that they must have Douggie. It came to him that it all hinged on the evidence, and whether it had reached Huth. In every single one of his fractured dreams he tried to find him and explain, but he was always thwarted, even when he made it all the way to Huth’s office. Brandt appeared, reaching for his pistol; or Kellerman was waiting behind the desk; or Mühlbach walked into the room. Douglas tried to speak with each of them – whole conversations, sometimes – but then everything faded, and he was left uncertain that they had ever been there.

There was a woman present, sometimes; and on one occasion Huth sent her away. He came and stood close by, his long shadow falling across the bed where they were keeping Douglas. ‘Rant and rave all you like, Archer. You’re in a private room; no-one will hear you.’

Douglas was not ashamed to beg. ‘Sir, it wasn’t me, you have to understand!’

‘I do understand –’

‘I have evidence, I can tell you where it is…’ Douglas tried to get up, but Huth put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him, with less effort than it would have taken to pacify a child.

‘I know,’ said Huth. ‘I know. Don’t worry. Just lie back down.’

Weary from his exertion, Douglas did not say any more; and when he thought back he was never sure whether or not it had been another one of his dreams.

That exchange was one of the last things he remembered. Soon afterwards there was nothing: neither light nor dark, no cold or heat or pain. When, at last, he woke up, he realised even before he opened his eyes that he must have been drifting in and out of unconsciousness for days. He was forewarned that he was waking into a different world.

The light was dazzling. Through half-closed eyes, he saw the hospital room for the first time: small, but bright and airy.

‘Commendable timing, Archer. Of course, you know by now that I don’t like to be kept waiting.’

Huth was sitting there, briefcase at his feet, cap placed on the bedside table. He was utterly incongruous in the white-painted room, antithetical to the sunlight on the wall and the summer breeze moving the curtains. But at least he was smiling.

Douglas was sure that Huth would consider gunshot wounds no excuse for lying prostrate in front of one’s commanding officer. He tried to push himself up, but Huth held out a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t be stupid, man. You’re injured. You’ll be trying to salute next.’ He nodded at Douglas’s right arm, which was in a sling.

‘Grazes, just like I told you,’ said Huth. ‘No real damage, none of your organs hit. The wound became infected, but you were lucky. They say you’ll make a full recovery.’

His tone was mild, sincere; but still Douglas was determined to sit up. From their first meeting, he had been conditioned never to show weakness in front of Huth. He tried again to raise his body, using his uninjured arm.

‘All right, if you’re that determined…’ Huth got up and leant over the bed. Passing his arms around Douglas’s chest, he moved him upright with surprising gentleness, arranged the pillows behind him, and let him sit back. Huth returned to his seat.

Douglas felt a little more dignified, but not much. More than anything he felt vulnerable, sitting here in thin hospital pyjamas, so weak that he could barely move without assistance. Douglas could still feel the pressure of Huth’s touch, as though his injuries had made him unusually sensitive. But he ought to acknowledge his help. ‘Thank you, Standartenführer.’

Huth raised his chin, pointing at his collar. Douglas looked more closely. Different insignia from before – two oak leaves each side, instead of one. Huth smiled. ‘Oberführer. Unobservant of you, Archer.’

‘The nuclear programme?’

‘The nuclear programme,’ agreed Huth. ‘The Reichsführer was pleased to find the Army so willing to cooperate. 

So Huth’s schemes had paid off, thought Douglas. All that he had needed was the crucial extra few days for them to come to fruition.

‘In any case…’ Seemingly from nowhere, Huth had produced a piece of paper, and now he dropped it onto the bedclothes. ‘You’ll need to get yours changed too.’

Douglas picked up the letter and scanned it. Promotion to Hauptsturmführer. Congratulations. Himmler’s jagged signature scarring the bottom of the page.

‘And there was this.’ Huth had put another piece of paper on the bedside table, this one folded. Delicately, using the tips of his fingers, he placed something on top. An Iron Cross. Douglas looked at it warily, as though it was a spider that might scuttle towards the pillow.

‘There was probably something official that I was meant to say when awarding it. I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t bother.’

Douglas would have minded even less if Huth had not made the award at all. ‘Is this from you?’ he said, realising too late that he sounded like a sulky child.

‘From the Reichsführer,’ said Huth, unperturbed by Douglas’s tone. ‘For discovering a spy on his staff. He’s grateful. I practically had to dissuade him from making a visit to your sickbed.’ Merciless as ever, he continued, ‘Heydrich was in favour of the award as well. He’s not a generous man, but he appreciates loyalty to the SD.’

The gratitude of Himmler was hard enough to bear; the gratitude of Heydrich – head of the Gestapo and SD, and a man whose displeasure even Huth rightly feared – doubled the burden. ‘Brandt, I suppose, is dead?’ said Douglas, deciding it might be best to hear all the painful news at once.

‘He knew the consequences should he be found out,’ said Huth, by which he meant, _Yes, extremely._ ‘From what I gather, Kellerman was going to get Brandt out of trouble if things went wrong. He didn’t count on us reaching him first. But Brandt’s wife and child are already in Switzerland – sent away a few days ago, courtesy of dear old Fritz. So, Kellerman’s last deed was a good one. It’s a better epitaph than he might have hoped for, all things considered.’

Douglas thought of the office back at Scotland Yard; the bustle and hurry of papers being seized, furniture hastily moved; the angling trophies already taken down from the wall and piled up for disposal. He felt unwell, even more so when he pictured the office’s new occupant advancing along the corridor. Mühlbach, small eyes narrowed, thick lips set in a smirk, confident that the English would finally be treated as they had always deserved.

‘Hans Mühlbach owes you his gratitude,’ said Huth, reading Douglas’s thoughts. ‘But I wouldn’t expect a thank-you note.’

‘And who will we get now, to replace him?’ said Douglas harshly. It would never end, he realised: there would always be a new threat, a new enemy to topple. The Nazis framed life as a struggle, and their functionaries, ever obedient, had learned to thrive on conflict.

‘Don’t you understand?’ said Huth. ‘We’re not getting anyone. I’ll be sitting in that office from now on. I suppose Probst will have my old one. He’ll be delighted – somewhere for him to nap undisturbed. We’ll find you an office of your own, of course, close to mine.’

‘The reward for getting my old office-mate killed?’ said Douglas.

‘That won’t do your reputation any harm,’ said Huth lightly; and Douglas knew that he was right. He sank back into the pillows, almost wishing that he was still trapped in his feverish dreams, rather than awake in this reality.

‘Douggie is well,’ said Huth in a voice that, under any other circumstances, Douglas might have called soothing. ‘I’ve been to see him. I explained to him what happened – I told him that you were injured in the line of duty.’

Douglas closed his eyes. Douggie too. Huth really was merciless. But he knew how to be charming, and that was what made him so dangerous. He would have made sure that he got Douggie to like him; he had probably turned up there on his damned motorcycle, knowing the boy would be enthralled. Douglas could have wept. He had wanted to keep Douggie away from men like Huth, in the vain hope that he might never grow to admire them.

Suddenly, Huth’s hand was hard against his shoulder, clasping it through the thin material. He leant close, almost whispering. ‘Archer, you know how grateful I am.’ He took Douglas’s left hand in his own as though to shake it, but held on, gripping it so that the palms pressed against each other. Douglas was reminded of that picture in Douggie’s book: Siegfried and Gunther standing beside the Rhine, swearing eternal loyalty. Huth must be grateful indeed to lurch so far sideways into Wagnerian melodrama.

But of course, Siegfried had been duped. He had arrived as an innocent at a court of plotting nobles, and they had tricked him. Douglas could not claim innocence for himself, not now. He had known exactly what he was doing when he went after Brandt; nobody had forced him, nobody had even begged it as a favour. He had done it all of his own volition.

He looked at Huth, noticing the light in his eyes, his companionable smile. Friendship. With this man. It ought not to have been possible. But Huth had seen the truth long before he had, just like always. He might be sitting there resplendent in his uniform while Douglas lay recumbent, half-dressed, but there was no real difference between them anymore. Douglas had matched up to Huth and the rest of his kind in double-dealing and ruthless self-interest. He had finally proven himself to his colleagues. And now he was one of them.

And what of the man that Huth had been, just briefly: confiding in Douglas; rushing to his aid that night in the Tiergarten? No doubt he would disappear. He might be here now, straightening the pillows and warmly professing his thanks, but the moment that Huth left the room he would be bundled into hiding like an embarrassing relative. There was no place for him in the world that Oberführer Dr Huth intended to make for himself.

Douglas disentangled his hand from Huth’s, shaking off his grip. ‘I didn’t do it for you.’

For just a moment, Huth looked surprised. Then he leant back. ‘Of course,’ he said softly. ‘I forgot. All of this still disgusts you.’ His smile remained, but the warmth had gone from his eyes.

They sat in silence. Douglas thought of London: the broken buildings; the ragged, exhausted populace just beginning to learn that things could only get worse. Huth, he knew, was trailing his every step as his mind wandered the city’s benighted streets.

Huth said idly, ‘You know, there have always been rumours about Gruppenführer Mühlbach. What’s more, I happen to know that they are not just rumours. They are quite true, and it would be easy to prove it. The Reichsführer, I think, has turned a blind eye.’ He paused, waiting for Douglas to look unwillingly up at his face. ‘But then, he turned a blind eye to Röhm and his associates as well – until the time came when the Führer gave the orders for the purge. Then he was fierce in his condemnation.’

A new enemy in their sights, thought Douglas. A new threat to be brought down. Day on day, as long as he and Huth worked together, it would ever be thus.

‘Perhaps you would like to lead that investigation?’ said Huth.

Douglas looked away from Huth, towards the window. Just for a moment, it was pleasant to pretend that none of this was real. He could feel the breeze, and hear its movement in the leaves outside. He could even detect the smell of the foliage wafting in – Huth, mercifully, was not one of those officers who overpowered whole rooms by dousing himself in cologne.

And yet, when he turned back again Huth would still be there. His new award would still be on the bedside table, ready to be pinned to the uniform that he would put back on in a matter of days. Anything else was only a fantasy.

Douglas looked back at Huth. ‘Thank you, Oberführer. I would like to lead the investigation.’

Huth smiled. ‘Good man, Douglas.’


	22. Chapter 22

August 1942

However much he willed it otherwise, Douglas Archer left hospital a changed man. He saw it in the eyes of his son as he stood in the hall to welcome him home, half-shy, half-admiring; and it was there too in the deferential behaviour of Fräulein Taube. When he arrived back at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse he found that his fellow officers had shaken off their usual indifference and were overwhelmingly eager to congratulate him and enquire after his recovery.

It was disorientating to realise how suddenly everything had changed. Having stepped away for barely any time at all, he returned to find that the pieces had been moved around on the board and he, without effort or energy – while lying unconscious, in fact – had become someone else entirely. It remained only for him to sweep in and occupy this new persona, like the office that had been prepared for him in his absence.

He devoted great energy to the task. He gave careful attention to his appearance and the state of his uniform, and learnt to carry himself more like Huth did – abandoning any desire to resemble the man that he had been in London. He taught himself never to explain or apologise, or even to give the impression that he was contemplating doing so. He began to read _Das Schwarze Korps_ , in small doses at first, like someone inuring himself to poison. If Huth could learn to imbibe endless quantities of the stuff without believing a word of it, then so could he. His wounds healed gradually, leaving only scars, and the occasional sharp twinge when he moved too suddenly.

Summer continued to wear itself out, and the evenings closed in. Huth started taking Douglas to meetings with the Reichsführer, where he learned to copy to perfection his superior’s feigned expression of intelligent interest in the face of everything that Himmler said.

After these meetings – whenever he could get away with it – Douglas preferred to place his notes in the bottom drawer of his desk and delay looking at them again for as long as possible. Today, however, when he returned to his office to find that the latest report from Munich had arrived, he knew that the new documents would be no more pleasurable to read than his notes from the briefing.

Nonetheless, he opened the envelope and spread the papers across his desk. Douglas sighed. He appreciated having an office to himself, not least considering the delicate nature of his investigation into Mühlbach, and yet in a vague way he missed Brandt. They had not worked together closely, and he had certainly not been much of a conversationalist, but he had never been unfriendly towards Douglas. Until that last evening, of course, when relations had swiftly deteriorated. That, Douglas supposed, was another good thing about the new office: he never had to look across the room and imagine Brandt’s baleful ghost sitting in his old chair, wishing that he had run faster, or shot straighter.

Douglas wondered how Huth felt, occupying Springer’s former office. As ever, he gave little sign of anything other than satisfaction at gaining the accolades to which he was entitled; but Douglas had caught him more than once in moments of retrospection.

The first time, Douglas had not long since returned to work. He found Huth one evening, sitting on the sofa beside the coffee table in the corner of the office, lost in thought. Huth had seemed irritated to be disturbed at first, but then at all once had decided that he wanted to talk. It was a conversation that Douglas frequently thought back on, as though he had not yet entirely processed its contents.

Douglas had expected Huth to discuss Mühlbach with his usual bluntness, but instead he sidled up to the topic and began by making hints. ‘The rumour has always been,’ he said, ‘that Hans Mühlbach shares the proclivities of his former friends in the SA.’ He waited for Douglas to react. ‘Come along, Archer, surely even you’ve heard about the sort of things that Röhm got up to.’

‘A homosexual?’ said Douglas. ‘But Mühlbach is married.’

It was evident that Huth, much as he tried to disguise it, found this remark richly comic. ‘Yes, that’s quite right,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Poor Frau Mühlbach – do you think she realises? If not, somebody will have to enlighten her once her husband has been arrested.’

Even coming from Huth, Douglas found this flat statement of intent alarming. He fidgeted in his seat, feeling profoundly unprepared to hear whatever Huth was about to say next.

The punishments for homosexuality were harsh. Himmler denounced any homosexual act with disgust approaching apoplexy; and all Germans were expected to take the same view. And yet Huth had never tried to make Douglas a defender of Nazi ideology before: he had never sent him after political groups or the remnants of Berlin’s Jewish population. Was he now going to demand that Douglas dig up scurrilous rumours about Mühlbach so that he could be arrested on trumped-up charges of perversion?

‘I can see you’re preparing one of your fits of conscience,’ said Huth. ‘But you weren’t there in nineteen thirty-four.’

‘For which I’m grateful,’ muttered Douglas. He could happily have lived the rest of his life without Huth or anyone else trying to recount the events of the Röhm purge to him.

‘You simply can’t imagine his astonishment.’ Huth’s voice was full of genuine, unexpected bitterness. ‘His disgust at the very idea that Röhm and his lot were found in bed with other men. As if there was a single rent boy in Munich back at that time who was safe when Mühlbach was around! It wasn’t as though he even had anything to gain from denouncing them after they were dead, vicious hypocrite that he is.’

Douglas sat and waited. It was still there, getting closer and closer: the thing that Huth was going to tell him. But now it had shifted in form. Douglas was not sure whether he was more, or less, afraid to hear it.

Huth said, ‘Not long after I had joined the SS, one evening when he was more than usually drunk, Mühlbach thought he might try his luck with me.’ He looked across the table at Douglas. He had his hands resting lightly on one knee, but it was easy to see how tense they were, how tightly his fingers were interlaced. If Huth was trying to persuade Douglas that he had not been nervous about telling him this story, then he was failing utterly.

‘I wouldn’t have thought that Mühlbach was your type,’ said Douglas carefully.

‘He wasn’t. He isn’t. In fact, I wouldn’t have thought that I was his type either. I was considerably older than some of the boys it was rumoured he usually went for, but perhaps I was better preserved than them. He also found me more resistant to his dubious charms.’

‘Naturally,’ said Douglas. Huth was speaking quite dispassionately, without anger or embarrassment. It was difficult to judge how to react.

‘Mühlbach made a second miscalculation,’ said Huth. ‘He believed that he could shame or frighten me into silence. Of course, I told Springer at once about his failed attempt, and he spoke to Mühlbach. I wasn’t there, but I understand that he threatened to separate him from his testicles.’

Douglas had always wondered when he would hear something about Springer that made him think more favourably of the man. The threat to castrate Mühlbach did not imbue the professor with any greater warmth or humanity in Douglas’s view, but it seemed a noble enough sentiment under the circumstances.

‘Why didn’t you report his behaviour back then?’ said Douglas.

Huth said, ‘We were given to believe that it would be unwise. And we came to an arrangement.’ He saw Douglas looking at him, and said shortly, ‘Silence on both sides. And in the end Mühlbach returned to Munich, and we had no call ever to use the information we had against him. But there’s plenty of information out there, believe me.’

Huth, thought Douglas, was not the one who would have to go raking through all the evidence – and speaking to the people unfortunate or desperate enough to associate with Mühlbach. ‘I suppose I can begin in Berlin,’ he said. ‘Find out if someone can tell us anything from when he was posted here most recently.’

Huth laughed. ‘If I were so inclined – which I’m not – I’m sure I could find a number of men you might usefully speak to. No, start elsewhere. If we can show that he has been corrupting German youth for a decade then Himmler will have no choice but to get rid of him and find a more suitable candidate for his job.’

Douglas could only assume that Huth was referring to himself as Mühlbach’s obvious successor at Scotland Yard. He must have reacted with insufficient enthusiasm, for Huth said, ‘Don’t look like that. Nobody’s asked you to produce false evidence, have they?’ By now he scarcely needed to tell Douglas how frequently the SD resorted to fabrication when they did not have the information they needed. ‘He will be arrested for a crime that he has actually committed. What more do you want?’

As if buoyed by the thought of Mühlbach’s arrest, Huth went to get up from his chair. Douglas said quickly, ‘But wait.’ Huth stopped, and Douglas looked into his superior’s face. ‘You told me that you agreed to silence on both sides. If you start an investigation into him now, you won’t be keeping up your end of the bargain. Isn’t there any danger in that for you?’

But Huth, well-practised in the art of responding to a question without actually answering it, just said lightly, ‘Do you want Mühlbach out of Scotland Yard or not? Well then, there’s nothing more for us to discuss.’ 

 

After reading through the report from Munich Douglas had little stomach for staying at work late, and he arrived home in time to put his son to bed. He and Douggie watched from the living room window as Fräulein Taube and her father waved up at them before disappearing into the autumn dusk. Then Douggie went to change into his nightclothes. Douglas went through to find him sitting up in bed. ‘I could read to you, Dad.’

Lately, Douggie seemed to be at pains to show his father how quickly his German had progressed. ‘Not long ago I used to read to you,’ said Douglas, smiling. He looked at the cover of the book. Karl May – another of his tales of the Wild West. It was certainly more palatable than many of the books that Douggie brought home from school.

Douglas glanced around the room as his son read. He always found it comforting in here, and in the lamplight it was especially so. Most of his son’s possessions had been brought with him from London, and in the low light it was just possible for Douglas to fool himself that they were back there.

Two chapters into the book, and Douggie was beginning to flag. They laid it aside. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be home for dinner tomorrow night,’ said Douglas, tucking the covers around his son.

‘You’re having dinner with Dr Huth?’

‘To talk about work,’ said Douglas. He realised that the speed of his response made him sound defensive, even if his tone did not.

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m having dinner at Martin’s tomorrow night, anyway. Some of the other boys are coming too.’

‘Of course,’ said Douglas, although he had quite forgotten. It might have been his imagination, but both Douggie and his friend Martin seemed to have become more popular since Douglas had been promoted.

Douggie said, ‘Martin was telling Michael and Klaus, the other day, about what happened when you got your medal. About how Dr Huth was going to be shot, and you protected him, and you were hurt instead.’ He looked up at his father. Douglas could tell that he knew it was not really true – the approximate circumstances of the attack had been explained to him, of course. And yet he was still hoping that his father might verify the tale.

‘It sounds like Martin is an even bigger storyteller than his father,’ said Douglas. He realised that he should not have voiced the thought. The small room seemed to shrink around him; he imagined that the lamp flickered. ‘You mustn’t repeat that to anyone,’ he said to Douggie.

‘You don’t need to tell me, Dad.’ For a boy of his age, Douggie produced a remarkable tone of weary patience. He shifted in the bed, bunching the covers around him. ‘I know about the things that I’m not supposed to say.’

‘Good boy.’ Douglas could tell that there was something else. He waited.

‘At school… Herr Thiele was talking about the fighting in England.’

‘I don’t think there’s much more fighting now, Douggie.’ It was true. With autumn setting in and Mühlbach using his new position aggressively to pacify the Occupied Zone, the Army had advanced north. They had reached York a short while ago, and it was said that England and Wales would be entirely under German occupation by Christmas. Then again, other people said that partisans could hold out for years in the mountains: in the Pennines, Cumbria and Snowdonia.

‘What will Harry do?’

Douglas had guessed that this was Douggie’s chief concern. ‘Harry will be all right,’ he said. ‘He’s getting old – he’s not going to fight. The Germans will leave him and his cousin alone and let them get on with looking after their sheep.’

‘But he was arrested before,’ said Douggie. Just sometimes, Douglas wished that he could be a fraction less perceptive.

‘He won’t give them any trouble, Douggie. After all, he doesn’t want to be in prison when you and I come to visit.’ Douglas found that he spoke often of this fabled visit to England. He wondered if it was not cruel to promote the idea to his son; and yet he too liked to believe that they would see Harry again before long. He never allowed himself to dwell on the fact that they would arrive back in England as conquerors, not natives.

But Douggie seemed satisfied – either that or too sleepy to argue further. ‘All right. Good night, Dad.’

‘Good night, Douggie.’ Douglas switched off the light, and left his son to his dreams.

 

Douglas had never got around to asking Huth exactly what the purpose was of their dining together. Huth always framed it as an opportunity to discuss their investigations, and yet they said nothing that they could not have said back in the office. But, having found no way to refuse on the first occasion that Huth had suggested it, Douglas continued to accept.

He knew that with other officers it would have been an imposition. Kellerman, for example, would have made full use of the chance to leave work early, charge the dinner bill to the SS and concentrate more on his food and drink than on whatever problem his subordinate was trying in vain to talk to him about. With Huth the invite meant something different – a mark of his respect, perhaps.

He favoured quiet, unpromising looking establishments on side streets – places where the quality of the food far surpassed the shabby façade outside. There were never any other officers there – none in uniform, at least – and yet the staff never looked surprised when Huth and Douglas arrived straight from the office.

It was a new place this evening, its illuminated frontage glowing like a beacon at one end of a particularly narrow and dim alley. ‘You used to come here with Springer?’ said Douglas, as they sat down near the back of the restaurant.

‘The staff know when to go away – and how to keep quiet. It’s an underrated skill.’ Huth smiled. ‘Even then, Springer only wanted to come here when he was in a good mood. And he’d still give me that look of his if he thought I wasn’t talking quietly enough about our work.’ He produced a brief sample of Springer’s glare.

There it was, thought Douglas: one of Huth’s carefully selected snippets of personal information, intended to draw him into conversation. He did this every time, and every time it continued to work. He would reveal something about himself, usually something that one could have imagined he did not want other people to know; and Douglas always found himself offering up something in return. When last they had eaten together, Huth had told him about the time a friend pushed him into the river while punting back in Oxford – to impress a girl, Huth suspected. Distracted by trying to imagine a time when someone had dared to make Huth look foolish, Douglas had divulged far more than he intended about his own minor misfortunes at university, the petty acts of bravado, the pranks played in drunken high spirits after Boat Club dinners.

They talked about Oxford again that evening, and more cautiously about London. Too often, when Douglas conjured up the city in his mind’s eye, Mühlbach loomed in the background, casting a pall over all memories of his former home. As if in recognition of this, Huth said, ‘How is your work on our former colleague progressing?’

‘There’s a clear pattern.’ The waitress had brought coffee and schnapps, and Douglas waited until she had retreated before he continued. ‘There seem to have been an unusual number of denunciations anywhere he was based. SS men as well, not just civilians.’

‘People always said that he had a technique.’ Huth was lighting a cigarette. With it clasped between his lips, it was hard to tell whether his expression was a smile or a grimace. He inhaled, and glanced across at Douglas. ‘Astonishing, isn’t it? One always imagined Mühlbach being considerate to his conquests.’

‘Very disappointing,’ said Douglas, matching Huth’s deadpan sarcasm.

‘Any chance of talking to someone who got on the wrong side of him?’

‘A good chance.’ Douglas paused, and then said, ‘The records are very detailed.’

Huth inclined his head, as though accepting a compliment on behalf of the entire SD.

‘They also make fairly miserable reading,’ said Douglas. He had no idea how Huth would respond and yet, somehow, he could not have left the sentiment unspoken.

‘Sorry, Archer.’ There was no note of apology in Huth’s voice. ‘If you ever find any of our records or reports that make pleasant reading you will tell me, won’t you?’

‘You’ll be the first to know,’ said Douglas.

‘Good. For my part, I have Boerner keeping an eye on his new commanding officer at Scotland Yard.’

‘Is that safe for Boerner?’ said Douglas. A second later, he realised that he had been thinking of Jimmy Dunn. But that was terrible, to compare the young policeman to an SD officer.

Huth said, ‘Trust me, unless Boerner is unlucky enough to be the type that he likes, Mühlbach won’t even have noticed him.’ He gave Douglas one of those brief, searching looks that he managed to make so irritating. ‘You shouldn’t underestimate Boerner because he’s young. We were all young once.’ He leaned back, stretching. ‘And he stands to benefit too. When we get to London, I’ll promote him.’

Frequently, Huth spoke of Mühlbach’s removal and their subsequent move to London as if it were a foregone conclusion. Douglas was unsure whether to find his confidence disquieting or comforting. But for now, with schnapps still to be drunk, marking the end of what had been a pleasant enough evening all in all, it was easiest to tend towards the latter option.


	23. Chapter 23

November 1942

One morning in mid-November, Berlin woke to a thick, lingering fog; and the news came from London that King George VI had died in the Tower.

When Douglas arrived at work – through streets just as hazy as they had been two hours before – he noticed how the other officers looked at him. Some seemed sympathetic, some almost triumphant, but none of them cared to explain why. By the time that Huth had called him into his office and made a typically brusque attempt at offering condolences, Douglas was relieved that the news was nothing worse.

‘You’ll think it very unfortunate, no doubt,’ said Huth. ‘He wasn’t old. But it makes no odds now if I tell you that he was quite unwell – he had been ever since the last of the bombs struck the Palace. One might almost consider his death a mercy.’

‘Or a mercy killing,’ said Douglas.

Huth, believing that he had closed the topic, glanced at him sharply. ‘I didn’t say that.’ He shook his head, looked back at the report that he was reading. ‘I don’t like Mühlbach any more than you do, Archer – but do you seriously believe that he would stoop to that? Is even Mühlbach the sort of man who would kill the British monarch?’

‘It’s rather convenient for Mühlbach, don’t you think? No more Resistance plots to free the King. No more trouble from the Army, saying that they should be guarding him instead.’

‘You’re starting to think like we do,’ said Huth, without looking up.

Drily, Douglas said, ‘Oberführer, you know I don’t like it when you pay me compliments of that kind.’

Now Huth gave Douglas a strange, pallid smile. ‘Who said it was a compliment?’ 

‘In any case, I doubt there will be an autopsy.’

‘It’s unlikely. But if Mühlbach did have one of the doctors slip His Majesty a large dose of barbiturates, then he’s a fool. He had the British monarch in custody. Now the British monarch is safely in New Zealand.’

‘She’s also a sixteen-year-old girl,’ said Douglas. ‘The British might have thought that they could rally around George. But with Elizabeth, our – their international standing is reduced to the status of a child. And a child can’t lead.’

Huth graciously ignored Douglas’s momentary lapse in his loyalty to the Fatherland, but said, ‘She won’t be a child forever.’

Douglas remembered Huth at Douggie’s school, insisting that children younger than Elizabeth herself be taken in for questioning. He wished that the memory had not resurfaced. The conversation over, he repaired to his own office.

But he continued to think of the King – and of Mühlbach. At length, when his thoughts had intruded for more than an hour and showed no sign of departing, he took out the files that he had received a few days ago. He had not, until now, been able to bring himself to share their contents with Huth.

Huth was still in his office, preparing some notes to take to the Reichsführer. ‘I’ve found two of the men who were once acquainted with Mühlbach,’ Douglas told him, once he had shut the door.

Huth raised his eyebrows. ‘Two of them. Where?’

‘Dachau,’ said Douglas.

Without a pause, Huth said, ‘And still there? You’re sure?’

‘For now, yes.’ From what Douglas had heard of Dachau, it would not be wise to delay in finding and questioning the men.

‘Excellent.’ Huth took the file but barely glanced at it. He was already planning their next move. ‘We’ll find someone who can go down there, as soon as possible.’

‘I will go,’ said Douglas. Somehow, he had expected something of this sort from Huth, and he had rehearsed over and again what he would say to him. ‘It’s a confidential investigation, isn’t it? We can’t risk anyone else getting involved.’ He saw that he had managed the rare feat of stopping Huth in his tracks. He continued, ‘On top of which, this is _my_ investigation. There is no need for a second man to work on it.’

Huth’s hand was still hovering in the direction of the phone, ready to contact whoever he had earmarked to send instead of Douglas. He looked his subordinate up and down, and for once did not seem to realise that he was doing it.

‘You were quick enough to threaten sending me there as a prisoner,’ said Douglas. He left the words hanging in the air. As he stared at Huth, watching surprise contort his features and mingle there with displeasure, he thought for a moment that the man was going to deny ever saying it.

‘And yet you’re unwilling to let me go there as one of your officers?’ Douglas waited. He knew, as did Huth, that he had just issued a challenge – and that by doing so he had already won the argument.

Huth leant back. His tone carefully neutral, he said, ‘Very well then, Archer, I have no objection to your going. Just for God’s sake get all the information that you need out of them so there’s no call for a return trip. I suppose you’ll have noticed that things are busy here?’

Douglas nodded respectfully. He was willing to let Huth have the last word. Besides, it was now time that the two of them made their way to the Reichsführer’s office for their meeting.

Huth paused with his hand on the inside of his office door and turned to Douglas. ‘I don’t need to tell you that your visit remains strictly confidential,’ he said.

‘Of course.’ Douglas was almost amused that Huth thought him stupid enough to mention anything about it in front of Himmler.

‘We won’t need to provide justification for you to see the prisoners, for now. But have a story ready, in case anyone asks. We’ll prepare supporting documentation.’

Douglas indicated his agreement, and they left.

It had been disconcerting at first to see Huth in these discussions with the Reichsführer; to watch him suppress his impatience, his sarcasm, and all those other qualities to which he usually gave such free rein, and instead behave with deference. And yet over time Douglas had come to realise how skilfully Huth dealt with his superior, and to understand the odd symbiosis that existed between Himmler and his subordinates.

In every situation that arose, Huth knew what the Reichsführer wanted to hear, whether reassurance or brash displays of confidence. He had some way of finding out when Himmler had quarrelled with Heydrich, and he could always tell which of them it was most prudent to support. And when something had gone awry elsewhere in the machinery of the state, he had an uncanny knack for knowing whether Göring was at fault, or whether the blame rested squarely with that complete bastard, Bormann. Over successive weeks, he worked to further his own agenda, drawing back when necessary to avoid too overt a display of self-interest and trying a different approach. It was a little like watching a man sneak up on a particularly suspicious sheep.

Only rarely did Himmler say anything that caught Huth off guard. But he did so today when he announced that he would be travelling to Berchtesgaden at the end of the week to meet with the Führer. Douglas could tell that Huth had not known of this.

Huth was quick to try and probe for details and, as if in magnanimity, Himmler allowed himself to be drawn. When Huth asked what the Reichsführer required in order to prepare for the meeting, they learned that the Führer wanted to discuss the situation in the East. Himmler said the phrase in a dark tone that could only be translated to mean “the Russians”.

Douglas was sure that the King’s demise had already begun to galvanise German thinking. There could be no better or more timely metaphor for the pacification of England; and now the Army was turning its attention elsewhere.

‘The problem of the East will be easily resolved in due course,’ said Huth. ‘We had an update from England earlier – the team at Bringle Sands are making good progress.’ He might have continued, but he found the Reichsführer staring at him through his pince-nez with a mild, schoolmasterly expression of disappointment. Douglas sometimes wondered how Huth managed to bear it.

‘And all the time that we wait, we are forced to maintain an accord with the Bolsheviks,’ said Himmler, as though to a pupil who has let his teacher down by completing a mathematics problem in haste and arriving at the wrong answer. ‘And the Slavs continue to occupy our land.’

‘An unfortunate necessity, but a temporary one.’ Only a far braver or a far stupider man than Huth would have contradicted Himmler’s assertion that Germany was entitled to any and all land it might wish to occupy and resettle.

‘But such people cannot be trusted to keep to our terms.’

Douglas could not fail to notice the irony of his statement, when all signs pointed to Germany considering an attack on the Russians. And Huth, whether he believed the Russians to be trustworthy or otherwise, did not appear to consider them a threat. He said, ‘From all our intelligence, it is unlikely that they are planning for war in the immediate future. Schellenberg –’

‘I have spoken with Schellenberg,’ said Himmler curtly.

Huth allowed himself to look abashed. There was no foreign intelligence that he could share with the Reichsführer if Walter Schellenberg, the expert in this department, had already done so.

Himmler was staring into space. One wondered what he saw there. ‘Fesel believes that the time will soon be right.’ Fesel was his astrologer.

Huth raised his eyebrows and made a noise of affirmation, as though to say, _“Really? How delightful.”_ But the second that he could be sure Himmler was not watching him, he dropped the expression. He had the look in his eyes of a man wondering how easy it would be to murder an astrologer and pass it off as an accident. Nonetheless, he was careful to position himself as the fulfilment of Fesel’s prophecies, not the other man’s rival. ‘I am sure that our project will bear fruit rapidly,’ he said. ‘Certainly within the next six months.’ Himmler nodded, albeit with more politeness than enthusiasm.

The two men took some minutes to conclude the meeting, going about it in the same way that they always did, each trying to extract what he needed from the other. At length, Himmler satisfied himself that Huth had properly recognised the Bolshevik threat; and Huth determined that he could glean no more information about the meeting with the Führer. 

Douglas and Huth did not speak as they descended from the Reichsführer’s office, but Douglas was sure that they were thinking the same thing. Even with thoughts of war with Russia uppermost in his mind, was Himmler losing interest in the nuclear programme? Douglas had noticed his changing attitude as time had passed. At first, he had been eager for any update on the handover from the Army – but it seemed that this process, and the attendant humiliation of the generals, was where his chief interest lay. Now that the project rested squarely with the SS, he had moved onto considering new possibilities. In a recent meeting he had talked at such length about some archaeological expedition in the Far East that even Huth’s patience was tested, but had enquired about the nuclear programme only as an afterthought, a kindness to a favoured subordinate.

Huth showed no outward sign of consternation, but he was walking even faster than usual, and he returned to his office without suggesting that they discuss the meeting. Douglas was certain that within ten minutes – possibly less – a physicist somewhere would be receiving a phone call to tell him that he was not working hard enough. And tonight perhaps, or else tomorrow, Huth would try to meet with his Abwehr friend von Heim, to gather more rumours of preparations against Russia.

And Douglas, upon returning to his office and finding the files from Dachau on his desk, remembered that he had arrangements to make of his own.


	24. Chapter 24

Douglas’s bravado accompanied him as far as the gates, and no further. Up until the point of arriving at the camp, he had allowed his sense of triumph to mask the reality almost entirely. He told himself that he was showing courage by coming here, that he was forcing Huth to treat him as he would any other officer; and he even began to delude himself into thinking that he would find nothing much worse than the POW camps that he had seen in Britain. The moment that he set foot in Dachau, all his delusions abandoned him.

Under duress, he found ways of coping. The first was his conscious decision to treat his hosts with as much brusqueness as he reasonably could. He had seen Huth do it enough times to produce a fair imitation; and he knew that things would go easier if the staff at Dachau were made to understand that he came from the Reich Main Security Office, and therefore his time was valuable. When the young officer who met him at the entrance suggested that Douglas might wish to speak to Dr Rascher, who was in charge of what he termed the “programme” for homosexuals at Dachau, Douglas rebuffed the idea with the coldness that it deserved.

His second strategy was simply to avoid looking around him. He had become practised at it in London following the occupation, and it served him well here. As they entered the camp he did not allow himself to take in the vista or scan the boundaries of the perimeter fence; and when the guards hurried off to fetch the prisoners he did not glance after them in the direction of the barrack huts. He exhaled, and watched his breath spiral upwards and fade into the air. Conscious that he must be cold, Untersturmführer Halder said, ‘Please, this way.’ The two men turned and approached the buildings that flanked the open space inside the camp gates. Somewhere behind them, a shot rang out, but neither of them acknowledged it. 

Douglas’s policy of ignoring his surroundings entirely carried him as far as a small room in the block where, at his own request, he was left alone to await the arrival of the prisoners. There he sat on one side of a small table, and tried not to consider what else this room might be used for.

But he was – or had been – a detective. He could not fail to notice things. He recognised the smell of disinfectant and, under it, the faint scent of what it was intended to mask. The walls and floor were bare, but if one looked it was obvious that they had not been swabbed down so entirely as to leave no trace. Douglas’s gaze settled on a stain that seemed to grow darker the longer that he stared at it, and it struck him that everything around him was unclean, tainted by what had gone before. He snatched his hands off the table top and sat with them in his lap, like a child.

There was a knock at the door, and Douglas called, ‘Come in!’ The guard entered with a man who, judging by his height, could only be the former SS recruit, Steiner. The pink triangle sewn onto to his threadbare jacket told Douglas that there was no chance the guard had brought the wrong prisoner. Douglas waited as he was deposited roughly in the chair on the other side of the table. When the guard stood behind Steiner as though he was going to stay, Douglas said, ‘You may leave.’

The guard momentarily considered arguing, but then shrugged. By a casual cuff to the head, he communicated to Steiner that he was to put his arms behind the chair, whereupon he handcuffed his wrists. Douglas strove not to wince. He knew that he had no choice if he wanted to talk to Steiner alone.

Once the guard had gone, Douglas said, ‘You are Alexander Steiner?’

The prisoner nodded. Aware that he was expected to speak, but clearly struggling to do so, he said, ‘Yes.’ His voice was not much more than a whisper.

Douglas could not guess how old he was simply by looking at him; he had to think back to his files to work it out. Steiner had been nineteen when he was arrested, so he could only be in his early twenties now. He was broad across the shoulders, in spite of his obvious undernourishment. What hair he had was very fair.

‘You were taken into custody in Munich, in nineteen thirty-eight, correct?’

Steiner nodded again, his face strained. He was hunched forward – as far as he could manage – like someone with a stomach ache.

‘I need to speak to you about the circumstances of your arrest.’

But Steiner shook his head, and did not stop. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, his teeth clenched. Douglas saw that he was shaking. He said, ‘Steiner, you need to answer my questions. Understand?’

Nothing – just a choking sound, and more whimpering. The man hung there, pinioned to his chair in that unnatural position, almost like a corpse. Like Jimmy Dunn had been.

Douglas stood up very quickly and went to the door. To the guard outside, he said, ‘This one won’t talk. Bring the other one in as well.’

‘You want to interrogate them together?’ Now the guard really was inclined to argue. Looking into the man’s eyes, Douglas was suddenly terrified, such as he had not been for months. It was the absence of any feeling there – the cruelty but also the dumb indifference. The man would happily have done to Douglas whatever it was that someone had done to Steiner to break him so completely. He would have done it to amuse himself, or because ordered to do so, or for no particular reason at all. The fear and the knowledge of this rested heavily in Douglas’s stomach, and it was only by mustering all his resolve that he did not begin quivering like the prisoner in the room behind him.

‘Bring him in,’ said Douglas, shut the door, and waited. Before long the guard, looking mutinous, brought in the second prisoner. He proceeded to handcuff him in the same manner, shunting Steiner aside to create a space between the two men. Receiving only a blank stare from Douglas for his trouble, he left.

Douglas had expected to find something seedy in Karl Dietrich. In fact, he realised that he had _hoped_ to find him seedy. It would have made these circumstances marginally easier to bear. Everything in his file suggested it: he was alleged to have had relationships with a string of men, usually those who held some position in society from which he stood to benefit. “Notorious” was the word that the report had used – a notorious degenerate, and a chaser of money and status. But Douglas liked him on sight. He had an intelligent face, large eyes, expressive brows. He could not help but raise them slightly upon hearing Douglas’s accent. When he answered to confirm his name, his speech was sophisticated, light but without glibness. Douglas felt worse than ever.

‘Why won’t he talk?’ he said, indicating Steiner.

Dietrich looked over at the other man, and then back at Douglas. ‘Would you like me to tell you some of the things they’ve done to him?’ He spoke quietly, but clearly.

Douglas was surprised to find such defiance, but then again, something in Dietrich’s posture and his crooked smile told him that the man was beyond caring. Perhaps he no longer minded what the SS did to him, or was even actively seeking death. ‘No, I don’t want you to tell me,’ he said. ‘But explain to me how you came to be here.’

‘Oh, I was arrested on account of my deviancy, naturally. For my own good.’ The glint in Dietrich’s eyes grew still harder and more sardonic. ‘I’m a degenerate, you see. How fortunate that I was brought here to take the cure, as it were.’

‘I know that,’ said Douglas. ‘I am asking about the specific circumstances. About the man who sent you here.’

The two prisoners had barely looked at each other so far, but now they reacted in unison; their faces became closed, their eyes guarded. Douglas had seen it hundreds of times before. Now he knew that he had not erred in his suspicions. ‘I am asking you about a man named Hans Mühlbach,’ he said.

‘I have never heard the name,’ said Dietrich at once.

‘I don’t believe you.’

Dietrich was silent. Douglas said, ‘I am not here on behalf of Hans Mühlbach. I don’t work for him.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Dietrich 

Douglas hesitated. Steiner was still incapable of speech, so he was left to appeal to Dietrich. ‘You wondered about my accent, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘You noticed it the moment I spoke. Well, I am – or was – English. Hans Mühlbach is now in London. He has been put in charge of the police forces there. My family and friends remain in London. Now do you understand why I want information that will put a stop to him?’

Dietrich studied him closely, trying to puzzle the situation out. A wave of misery swept over Douglas. The man did not belong here, wasting away behind barbed wire.

Slowly, Dietrich said, ‘You are not here without the support of someone in a high place.’

Douglas nodded towards Steiner. ‘Why don’t you ask your friend how loyal the SS really are towards their own?’

Somehow, despite his undignified position, despite the hundred degradations that had been inflicted upon him, Dietrich still managed some degree of showmanship. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I knew Hans Mühlbach, and there’s little doubt that he was the one who denounced me. What exactly do you wish to know?’

‘Just the truth,’ said Douglas.

Dietrich considered. He said, ‘I’d been with others before – men that I knew to be SS officers.’

‘That was foolhardy,’ said Douglas, before he could stop himself. ‘You must have known the views that they held, especially after what happened to the SA.’

Dietrich laughed, incredulous. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he said, with brutal sarcasm. ‘That’s good advice. I’ll remember that for the future.’

‘Tell me about Mühlbach.’

‘Most of the other SS had learned to hate themselves. They wanted what they wanted, but they could barely bring themselves to look at me. They were anxious only that no-one found out, and that suited me. I rarely saw any of them more than once. Mühlbach was different, in that regard. He came back. In the end we saw each other regularly, for months.’

Douglas struggled to understand how this man could have brought himself to associate with Mühlbach in any capacity, least of all as a lover. Dietrich saw the disbelief in his face. ‘I came around to thinking that I was safer with him than without,’ he said.

‘And what went wrong?’ said Douglas.

‘I was very foolish.’ Dietrich tried to say it calmly. ‘Or perhaps just unlucky. One evening we quarrelled – I forget what about, exactly. We were both immensely drunk. He called me some quite offensive things, and I told him that he ought to watch himself. I said that I had heard what happened to SS officers whose habits were discovered – that they got sent to places like this, still wearing their uniforms, and were left at the mercy of the other prisoners.’

Douglas did not say anything. What was there to say to such a story?

‘I don’t think I ever quite believed that he would really do it,’ said Dietrich. ‘Even after my arrest, I thought that it would go through the criminal courts, and I might spend a few months in prison, before he pulled strings to get me out. But they sent me straight here.’ He fixed Douglas with a cold, steady stare.

‘I don’t think that you were unlucky,’ said Douglas. ‘Or that you could have done much to prevent it. Mühlbach is known to have had a technique.’ He angled himself slightly towards Steiner, who had been listening to Dietrich with downcast eyes, hunched into himself.

‘I know it will mean very little to you if he is brought to justice,’ said Douglas. ‘But anything that you can tell me might help.’

And, at times barely audible, interspersed with long pauses, Steiner’s story came out. He had not long joined the SS, he said, when Mühlbach, his commanding officer, had discovered him alone with another recruit. Douglas could not gauge whether the occurrence had been something entirely harmless or anything deeper, but Mühlbach himself had judged it to be compromising, and had needed no other excuse for blackmail. When, after several months of enduring Mühlbach’s attentions, Steiner had mustered the courage to resist him, he had found himself arrested within the week, and sent somewhere where any accusations on his part would carry no weight at all.

Douglas thought of Huth, who also claimed to have been approached by Mühlbach, and who had secured so different an outcome for himself. But Steiner did not have Huth’s education or his overweening self-regard; he had not been already marked out for greatness; he had no powerful backer to support him. He had been young, naïve, perhaps even a little slow; he had been an easy victim for Mühlbach.

‘Do you know of anyone else who was involved with Mühlbach?’ said Douglas, addressing both men. He saw Steiner steal a fearful glance at Dietrich, noticed how the other man tried to convey his reassurance.

‘Otto Ritter,’ said Steiner dully.

Douglas wrote down the name. ‘Where is he? Here in Dachau?’

‘He was here,’ said Dietrich. ‘But he’s dead.’

Douglas did not ask how Ritter had come to meet his end. Dietrich continued, ‘I knew someone else back in Munich who claimed to have had dealings with Mühlbach. August Weiss. Perhaps he’s still somewhere in the city. Or perhaps he’s dead too, by now.’

Douglas made a note, forcing himself not to show how the weary resignation in Dietrich’s voice affected him. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That is all I need for the moment.’ He felt detached, as though in the strain of the situation some part of him had come loose and robbed him of his powers of perception. He could not read the two men’s faces as he should have been able to. Were they relieved that his questioning was over, or did they fear going back outside to the guards? Douglas knew that they could expect to be singled out simply by the fact of his having drawn attention to them.

When the guards came in, Douglas said, ‘These prisoners have vital information. I will need to interview them again. Should I come back and find them hurt or… unavailable to me, then you, personally, will answer to me, and to my superiors in Berlin.’

Like an insolent schoolboy who has been caught bullying other pupils, and fully intends to carry on doing so, the wall-eyed guard said, ‘No-one need fear punishment here, Hauptsturmführer, as long as he stays in line.’

‘Good,’ said Douglas. ‘Then we understand each other perfectly.’ He hoped only that Steiner and Dietrich understood him too, and that they could be relied upon not to do anything reckless until he could bring them to a place of greater safety. The last that he saw of them, they were being led from the room, Steiner still bent over, Dietrich straight-backed – deliberately to spite the guards, Douglas was certain.

Douglas was belaboured for the remainder of his visit by the presence of a young captain, who insisted that his counterpart from Berlin eat lunch with him and hear more about the camp. Ever afterwards, Douglas could never believe that he had managed to keep food down while listening to the man talk. But he had.

At last the time came for Douglas to leave. They stepped outside. The wind cut like a scythe, even through Douglas’s thick overcoat, and he reached into his pocket for his gloves. When he looked up, he saw that people were spilling through the entrance. Directed with shouts – and sometimes blows – they clustered in the space where the prisoners assembled for roll call. Douglas listened, hearing their voices carried on the breeze. He immediately persuaded himself that what he thought he heard could not be correct – their speech must be distorted by distance…

But the captain was smirking at him. ‘From England,’ he said, quite aware of the effect that this information would have on Douglas.

Douglas did not fear the captain in the way that he had the burly guard – it was difficult to be frightened of someone who was such an unimpressive physical specimen by SS standards. As if to buffer himself from the events unfolding a few metres away, he fantasised about punching the man: hitting him so hard and so many times that he never got up again. The same fate must have befallen countless prisoners in this very spot, why not one person extra?

But instead, he walked closer to the prisoners, and for the first time since being here he was unable to look away. All of them had entered the camp now, and the guards were trying to make them line up. There were murmurs, exclamations, the sound of someone crying. Douglas walked around the edge of the ground, watching. The captain followed him.

Douglas pointed. ‘I want to speak to that prisoner. Right now. Over here. Here will do.’ Without waiting for acquiescence, he made towards the guards’ room at the base of one of the watchtowers. One always achieved more by failing to ask permission. He knew that behind him the captain would be vacillating, indignant, but would ultimately obey his command.

There were two guards inside, sitting close to a brazier opposite the door. ‘Out,’ said Douglas briskly. The guards looked at each other; but by now the captain had appeared behind Douglas, and he nodded his grudging affirmation that the men should leave. Douglas went and stood facing the brazier, trying to warm himself – though it seemed an utter impossibility.

He heard them bring the prisoner in. ‘There is no call for you to stay,’ Douglas said, without turning around.

The captain said, ‘Hauptsturmführer, we don’t permit that –’

Douglas turned on his heel. The prisoner sitting at the table did not look up as he approached. ‘Hauptsturmführer, are you trying to tell me whether or not I am permitted to conduct my investigations in private?’ He did not give the captain the opportunity to answer. ‘No, I am sure that you had no intention of doing so. Please leave.’

The captain and the guards obeyed. Douglas sat down at the table, and removed his cap. Still the prisoner did not look at him, not until he said, ‘Sylvia.’

It was as though she had been stung. She flinched violently, and glanced at Douglas, mouth open in astonishment. Douglas looked back at her, and realised at once that he had failed to hide his reaction to her appearance: his horror at how thin she was, how she had aged. By the time he had rearranged his features into an expression of neutrality he was too late. Sylvia had always been good at reading him, and she had recovered from her astonishment first.

‘What on earth did you expect?’ Her voice was drier than it had been; hoarse, perhaps, from lack of use, with a breathless undertone that aroused Douglas’s concern the moment that he heard it. ‘Did you think I’d be looking well after all this time?’

‘Sylvia, I –‘

‘But you…’ Now her voice was little more than a hiss. ‘Now you finally look like the man you were all along.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Douglas.

That familiar look of scorn – harsher than before – and a soft breath of laughter. ‘I was going to say that at least you’d stopped pretending – but no. You’re wearing one of their uniforms, and still you won’t own up to it!’ Despite herself, Sylvia’s voice was growing louder. ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice from the day they arrived – you, eyeing up all those lovely strong Germans, wondering how you could get into one of those uniforms –’

Douglas reached out and seized Sylvia’s upper arm, gripping it until she could not suppress a cry of pain. She managed only a limp attempt to struggle. Calmly, Douglas said, ‘Stop it. You know that if you carry on and make a scene then the guards will come back in. And that will be worse for both of us.’

‘Worse!’ Her voice was strangulated, but there was still fight in her. ‘You come and find me, here, and you’re trying to tell me things can get worse!’

Hearing this, the fight went out of Douglas too. He let go of her arm. ‘I’m sure we’ve both learned by now that things can always get worse,’ he said.

Sylvia was silent, gazing down at her lap again. ‘Come and sit where it’s warmer,’ said Douglas; and she offered no objection. They drew their chairs close to the brazier.

‘Tell me what happened,’ said Douglas.

Her response was slow in coming. Then she said, ‘It’s been a year. A _year_. You’re going to sit and listen to everything, are you?’

‘If you’ll tell me,’ said Douglas quietly.

She snorted. ‘I think I’ll keep it brief, Douglas. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble, keeping me here while they’re processing the others.’

He did not say it to Sylvia, but Douglas promised himself that she would not be re-joining the others at all. He allowed himself to imagine taking her away, now – driving away from the gates with her beside him.

‘It was chaos at first,’ said Sylvia. ‘Well, you saw. They didn’t have enough food to give us or space to hold us. Little by little, they released some of the prisoners. Lots of those released were elderly – the ones who couldn’t work.’ Her lip curled as she said it. ‘I heard somewhere that an old woman had died while being held, and the Germans didn’t want a load of corpses on their hands. But some of us they kept. Eventually, once they’d moved us out of London, they did us the courtesy of actually saying that they had evidence against us, to keep us imprisoned.’

Deep, deep within himself, like something drowned in murky water, Douglas glimpsed the memory of how things would have been once upon a time in Britain. Back then, or in any sane time and place, Sylvia would have had the right to appeal.

‘The Army kept us for as long as there was martial law. Then they handed us over to the SS.’ She looked across at Douglas. ‘And I’m sure there’s nothing I can tell you about the SS camps that you don’t already know for yourself.’

‘Why have you been moved here?’

She laughed sharply, and then winced in the act of doing so. ‘How did they choose who was going to be moved, do you mean? I would have thought you knew more about selecting prisoners than I did.’

‘I don’t,’ said Douglas.

Sylvia did not acknowledge this. ‘More prisoners had been arriving at our camp, ever since the summer, and we were beyond capacity as it was. So they moved some of us out. Some people say we won’t even be here for long – they say the Germans will move us somewhere further east. But of course nobody knows.’

‘You’re not going east.’ Douglas wanted to reach out to Sylvia and to hold her; but he knew that there were a hundred reasons why he could not. He turned his chair towards her. ‘Sylvia, I will get you out, very soon. Within days. And until then I will make them hold you apart from the others. You’ll be safe.’ He could see that she was trying to speak, but he did not let her. ‘I’ll have them send you to Berlin first, if I have to, before you’re released, but I will see to it that you get back to London.’

Though he had not intended to, he reached for one of her hands, to warm it between his own. But she snatched it away.

‘You won’t,’ she said. ‘You won’t do any of that.’

‘I will, Sylvia, I’ll –’

‘Send me back to London?’ It was as though, finally, the situation had got the better of her and she could no longer control herself. ‘To do what? To work? How, where? To be with my friends and family? They’re dead, Douglas! They were killed by the people that you’ve decided to join – by _your_ people!’

‘You can’t believe that London would be worse than here,’ said Douglas. ‘You can’t.’ And yet the utter hopelessness of her situation had dawned on him too. In Mühlbach’s London, of all places, a former detainee had little hope of a new life, or any life at all. But he persisted. ‘I’m not going to leave you here,’ he said.

Temporarily calmer, she looked him in the eyes. ‘Douglas, if you have me sent back to London, let me tell you the first thing that I will do. I will arm myself – a gun, a knife, either will work equally well – I will find a way into an officers’ club, and I will kill as many Germans as I can. And when they arrest me, I will tell them that Douglas Archer, formerly of the Yard, now of the SD, was the one who had me released!’

Douglas could tell that she meant it. Sylvia had never been in the habit of making idle threats. And she knew him too well; she knew that the worst torture she could inflict on him was the knowledge that he had left her here. She was acting out of spite as well as despair – and who could have blamed her? She had the right to do it. And he deserved the punishment – he deserved to be confronted by the abrupt implosion of one of the driving forces of his life: his belief that he was an agent for good. 

‘Don’t worry, Douglas. I’ve learnt to survive, just like you have. Comfort yourself with that.’ That sneer of hers again, contorting her thin face. Then she turned away and approached the door, ready to be taken back outside.

He saw Sylvia for the last time as he was standing by the camp gates, waiting to leave. Douglas glimpsed her in the crowd of prisoners as they turned to process towards the barracks, and he imagined for a second that she looked back towards him. But then he blinked and lost her amongst the others, and he did not see her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was hesitant to write about a concentration camp in fanfiction, as I wouldn’t want to trivialise the Nazis’ crimes as a device to drive the plot. It’s also not an attempt to absolve Douglas of any guilt just because he finds Dachau upsetting – obviously, both he and Huth (especially Huth) are morally implicated in everything that the SS does, regardless of their personal feelings.
> 
> Ultimately, I would feel a bit uncomfortable writing at length about two SD officers in Berlin without at any point acknowledging that elsewhere the SD is imprisoning, torturing and murdering people en masse. So that’s part of the reason it’s in here – no attempt to shift the focus away from the actual victims to Douglas and his emotional turmoil is intended.


	25. Chapter 25

Douglas spent the next few days productively. He had already arranged to stay in Munich, and while there he located August Weiss. Easily enough – with the help of some heavy threats – he succeeded in obtaining from him a damning statement about Mühlbach’s predilections.

For verisimilitude, and to avoid appearing that he had something to hide, he visited the local SD headquarters to convey his personal thanks to the man who had obtained Dietrich’s and Steiner’s files for him. Although Douglas made no specific claim to be on a mission from Himmler, the officer needed little reminding of how serious the threat posed by the homosexuals really was, and how much it concerned the Reichsführer.

Throughout it all, Douglas felt distant, as though he were watching the actions of a third party. Suffusing everything, and separating him from the rest of the world, were thoughts of what he had seen at Dachau. At times he realised how easy it would be simply to blurt it out to someone, as though by this act of release he could rid himself of some of his guilt. But of course, he could not tell anybody. Often when he was in the presence of others a fragment of memory would surface, bobbing up like something putrid, and he would find that he wanted to cry; but once he was alone the tears would not come. It was in this state of all-pervading numbness that he returned to Berlin.

To a certain extent, entering the building at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse jolted him back to himself. He remembered that his investigation, the purpose of his visit, had been a total success. And he knew that Huth would perceive at once any fault lines in him, any weakness.

Though he showed it chiefly by his desire to hear Douglas’s findings immediately, Huth was pleased to see him. And yet, futile as it was, as he relayed the evidence to his commanding officer Douglas could not help but wonder all the while: had he known? He had known about the degradation that Douglas would find there, certainly – he must have visited such places – but had he known that there were British prisoners in Dachau?

If Huth had noticed any change in Douglas, then he did not comment upon it. He looked up from Douglas’s report and said, ‘This is it, Archer. We have almost all that we need – we can see that Mühlbach is gone for good.’ Then, more quietly, ‘Well done.’

‘Thank you,’ said Douglas. Unlike Huth, he could not muster a smile. Mühlbach might have been in his job for only a few months, but that had been enough to inflict plenty of damage. He and Huth both knew this. And there was something else lingering in the air between them as well – how could there not be? Huth, after all, had not wanted him to go to Dachau. Maybe he was now wondering whether his protégé had disgraced him by some show of emotion during his visit, or whether an unguarded word in Munich had raised suspicions about their investigation. Douglas had the feeling that Huth was expecting him to say something else, but he volunteered nothing.

At last, Huth said, ‘I heard that you spoke with another prisoner, as well as Dietrich and Steiner.’

Douglas could not tell from his tone whether Huth was merely interested, or getting ready to start shouting. Whichever it was, he was determined that he would not apologise for talking to Sylvia. ‘Did you know that there were British prisoners being sent to Dachau?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Huth. ‘Who was it that you spoke to?’

‘Sylvia.’

Huth tried to remember who Sylvia was. Finally, his frown relaxed, and Douglas knew that he had successfully recalled her. Then Huth said, ‘She’s unlucky not to have been released – a young woman like her. They must have had some concrete evidence of her activities, her connections. Still, it seems that she has learned to survive.’

And that was it – he had nothing more to say on the matter. Douglas would have found hatred easier to understand than his utter indifference. Huth could have described Sylvia as a criminal, a terrorist, deserving of her fate, but the fact was that he did not feel anything towards her at all. Sylvia had survived thus far; she might continue to survive wherever they sent her, or she might succumb to disease or exposure. She might attempt to escape, and succeed, and go into hiding. Or she might be shot by one of the guards and die a few metres outside the fence. Any and all possibilities were the same to Huth. And he had apathy enough for the rest of them as well: hundreds of thousands of people whose lives and deaths meant nothing to him.

‘She said that to me. That she had learned to survive.’ Douglas intended it as a rebuke – but he knew that it could scarcely have been any feebler. He kept his hands tightly knotted together, focussing his eyes on Huth’s desk, without looking at Huth himself.

‘What else did she say?’

If only for a couple more moments, Douglas had managed to make Huth show some interest in Sylvia. And yet now he could not answer him. He did not want to tell Huth about their conversation – and its contents did not matter much anyway. What mattered was that Sylvia had been absolutely right in all that she said about him. And there was Huth, sitting behind his desk in this palatial office, the embodiment of everything that Douglas had become.

‘Archer?’ Huth’s voice came to him as if from a great distance.

Douglas could not move or speak; he could barely breathe. His eyes traced the pattern in the carpet, seeking a distraction, trying to prevent himself from breaking down entirely. It did not work. He could not stop thinking about Sylvia, looking like death; her hollow eyes, the way that she had coughed. They were all still out there, shivering in the cold: hundreds of them in the same condition as Sylvia. And by creating a means for Mühlbach to go to London, Douglas himself had helped put them there.

‘Archer…’ There was a note of warning in Huth’s voice. Douglas heard him get up. ‘Archer, you can’t –’

Douglas’s chest rose and fell, a sob that he succeeded in suppressing to a breathy whimper. His eyes were burning.

‘Archer!’ hissed Huth. ‘Stop it! You can’t do this, not here. Someone will hear you!’ But he must have realised that it could not be halted. Douglas found himself grasped around the shoulders, guided to the corner of the office. Huth deposited him on the sofa and hurried away again. From across the room came the sound of the door being locked.

Douglas knew that he was crying in earnest now – shaking, barely able to hold in his sobs. He could only remember crying in front of another person once in his adult life – with Harry, just after his wife had been killed. He had been embarrassed enough then, but this was a hundred times worse.

‘Archer…’ Huth had stalked back across the room. Douglas tried to look up at him, blinking away tears. Huth was nervy, close to panicking, utterly uncertain what to do. For a moment, Douglas thought that he was going to hit him. He looked down again, shrinking into himself.

Huth crouched down and seized one of Douglas’s hands, grasping it between both of his own, but abandoned the idea the second that he had executed it and stood up again. He reached forward and took him by the shoulders as if about to shake him. And then Huth dropped onto the sofa, and pressed Douglas to his chest.

‘Douglas, please, shut up,’ whispered Huth, very close to his ear. He repeated the words again and again, that stark order in an incongruously gentle tone: ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up.’

Douglas was not sure whether Huth was trying to smother him or embrace him. His face was buried in Huth’s shoulder; one of Huth’s hands was resting against the back of his head. He could smell Huth’s cologne, the cigarette smoke on his breath, the stuff that he put on his hair. 

‘Come on,’ said Huth. ‘All right? All right.’ He stroked the back of Douglas’s head, smoothing down his hair where he had dishevelled it. Douglas’s sobs subsided and Huth, when he realised, slackened his grip on him. But Douglas did not pull away.

Huth released him suddenly, almost roughly. He got up and walked back towards his desk. Now, Douglas thought, the recriminations would start. He would say, _how dare you_ , and _you made me do it_. He would say, _if you tell anybody that this happened, I’ll kill you_.

Huth returned with a tumbler. Brandy. He slid it across the coffee table to Douglas.

‘It’s the middle of the day.’

‘Just drink it.’

Douglas obeyed. It helped, a little – not deadening the pain, but softening it. After a few minutes, Huth got out his cigarettes, circumnavigated the table to light one for Douglas, and retreated to the armchair on the other side before lighting his own.

‘Thank you.’

Huth said, ‘I’m sorry about the – I’m sorry about Sylvia. You shouldn’t have had to see any of that.’

‘It’s not about what I should and shouldn’t have had to see!’ Douglas noticed Huth flinch, just slightly, as he slammed his empty glass back onto the table. ‘None of them should have been there at all. What are British prisoners doing in Dachau?’

Huth did not meet his eyes. ‘An innovation of Mühlbach’s. Trying to make room in the British camps, I suppose – as far as he is concerned, there can never be enough people held in custody.’

‘Why are they being sent there?’

‘To work,’ said Huth, almost robotically.

Douglas gave a hollow laugh. ‘Believe me, very few of the prisoners I saw looked as though they were capable of much work!’

Huth placed his arm at an odd angle, holding his cigarette away from his face. He looked past Douglas, as though trying to stare beyond the room – to become detached from his surroundings, even from himself. He said, ‘Don’t you see that that’s the whole point? I thought you would have realised that, by now.’

Neither of them spoke. Douglas smoothed down his hair again, and glanced towards the locked door. But Huth gave no sign that he feared discovery. He looked over at Douglas.

‘What will it take – how long do you think you need, to feel better about this?’ said Huth.

Douglas could only stare at him. He kept being fooled, time and again, into thinking that any of these people were really human. They might behave like other people, some of the time; they might look like other people once they took off their uniforms – they might even show themselves capable of feeling the way that other people did. But Huth honestly believed that Douglas’s affliction was only temporary, something that could be overcome, or at least managed. He did not understand that the enormity of it changed everything; that it must change everything if Douglas was to remain human himself.

‘No-one is going to hold this against a good officer like you,’ said Huth. He seemed perturbed by Douglas’s silence, determined to bombard him with reassurances, however futile. ‘Everyone finds that they… but you need never have to go back to anywhere like that.’

‘That’s not the point,’ said Douglas.

‘Archer, I –’ Huth stopped, exhaled, started again. ‘I want to help,’ he said. ‘Don’t you see that? And what do you propose to do? You _could_ leave the SS, I suppose, if you feel so strongly – it’s not unheard of. More than anything else, it would be embarrassing for me, that I ever –’

‘Yes,’ said Douglas, interrupting him. ‘Yes, then I’ll leave. I can’t keep on –’

‘But you’re a police officer by profession, and you were brought to Germany to do a job. What would you do – how would you provide for your son?’

Douglas felt as though Huth was strangling him, slowly, with all the strength of his embrace and far more purpose. It was too much for him to bear. ‘You owe me your career!’ he said. ‘Where would you be now, if it weren’t for me? Somewhere in Poland, probably, dealing with all those prisoners – directing their “work”.’

‘And if it weren’t for me, you’d probably be dead, your son an orphan, and your erstwhile friends in the British resistance toasting your demise!’

Huth had always known how to browbeat Douglas into submission. After a pause he said, ‘You want to improve the situation for your countrymen? The most helpful thing that you can do is carry on with the investigation into Mühlbach. Once he has gone, we can make things better.’

‘Because you’re going to be any better, are you, once you’re in charge at Scotland Yard?’

‘Don’t give me that.’ Huth got up from the armchair and turned away. ‘Not now that you’ve seen with your own eyes the sort of things that Mühlbach is capable of.’

‘The prisoners, Dietrich and Steiner,’ said Douglas, before Huth had taken more than a step away. ‘I want them brought here. Their evidence is the most damning we’ve got against Mühlbach, and we can’t afford to lose them.’

Huth turned and looked down at Douglas. Seemingly despite himself, he was wearing a thin, pained smirk. ‘You’re suggesting that we bring a pair of homosexuals _here?’_ His tone said everything about his expectations of the treatment that would await them in custody.

‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t be safer here than in Dachau,’ said Douglas. ‘Unless you’re going to claim that you’re powerless to stop the guards from mistreating your prisoners?’

For once, Huth showed not the slightest reaction to having his authority challenged. Almost gently, he said, ‘Surely you realise that once our investigation has concluded, they will just be sent back?’

‘No. You contact that doctor at Dachau, and you tell him to sign them off as cured, or whatever it is he’s trying to achieve. Then there is no reason they cannot go free.’

Huth said flatly, ‘Whatever the doctor claims he’s trying to achieve, it’s rare that any prisoner is allowed to reap the benefits.’

‘I don’t care.’

Huth went over to his desk, leaving Douglas uncertain whether his demand had met with acquiescence or dismissal. ‘Take a week’s leave, Archer,’ he said. ‘You’ve been working too hard, that’s partly to blame.’

‘A week’s leave won’t make me feel better about what I’ve seen,’ said Douglas.

Huth barely glanced at him, as though wondering why he was still in the office. ‘It’s an order. Take your son – go away somewhere. He’s German now, he should see some of his own country.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Douglas. ‘Thank you.’ He paused, considering. Bearing in mind the reaction that he had feared, Huth had been more than understanding. He ought not to push for anything else. But nine months ago he had not dared to petition Huth for Sylvia’s release, and now, of course…

He forced himself not to think about it. He went over to Huth’s desk and planted his hands on the surface, making Huth look at him. 

‘What?’ said Huth. It was hard to tell whether he was charmed or irritated.

‘There was something else.’ said Douglas. ‘Tom Sheenan, my former landlady’s husband. He’s a prisoner of war. I want you to release him back to London, to be with his family. The city is even less safe since Mühlbach arrived, and Mrs Sheenan has no-one to look after her and her son.’

Huth began to laugh, then thought better of it. ‘That’s lunacy. How am I supposed to persuade the Army to release one solitary POW?’

‘Use your initiative.’

‘Archer –’

You asked me what you could do to make me feel better, and I’ve told you.’ said Douglas. ‘Or did you ask because you had something else in mind?’

Huth settled into his chair, looking up at Douglas with that small smile that could have meant almost anything. ‘And if I did? Are you going to roll me into the Mühlbach investigation, submit my name to the Reichsführer as well?’

‘Of course not,’ said Douglas quietly.

‘No. I didn’t think so. Do as I said, Archer, arrange your leave.’ Huth was back to his customary dismissive tone. ‘And yes, give me the details and I’ll see about your damned POW.’

Douglas felt that it took him considerable energy just to reach the office door. He was exhausted by all that had occurred and, in truth, wanted to forget about everything, if only for the rest of the day. Still, as he shut the door behind him he chanced a look back into the room. Huth was sitting there poring over his work just as he had been when Douglas entered. It was as though nothing had happened at all.


	26. Chapter 26

‘Where would you say that a man like Mühlbach goes in London when he wants company, so to speak?’

At first, Douglas mistook Huth’s question for the lead-in to some new and undoubtedly unsavoury evidence against Mühlbach. It was getting late, and there was no-one around to hear them talking here in Douglas’s office. ‘I really wouldn’t like to imagine when he goes,’ he said. Then he realised that Huth was wondering if he might know.

‘Really?’ said Huth. ‘There were never any other men of Mühlbach’s kind at Scotland Yard?’

Sometimes it seemed to Douglas that this entire investigation was an extended excuse for Huth to try and make him uncomfortable. ‘It wasn’t my job at that time to deal in rumours,’ he said. Huth pulled a face. Douglas continued, ‘And I would guess that any such officer would need to be extraordinarily discreet.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’ But Huth did not expand upon this. He shrugged. ‘Fine. I’ll have Boerner look into it.’

Douglas nodded, glad to be spared any involvement. Huth said, ‘You are going to Bavaria next week, yes?’

‘Yes,’ said Douglas.

‘Douggie will enjoy the snow.’ Huth looked pensive. What would it be this time, wondered Douglas. Some childhood reminiscence of the mountains, or an unsubtle reminder of his skiing prowess? But Huth saw that he was not in the mood for either of these things, and soon thereafter left Douglas to his work.

When, later that evening, Douglas told his son that they would be going away, the boy said immediately, ‘To London?’

Despite everything, Douglas could not stop himself from smiling. ‘We’ll go back one day, Douggie, but it’s not really the place for a holiday.’

‘To Cumbria, then, to see Harry.’

‘Not this time.’ Douggie looked disappointed, so Douglas said hurriedly, ‘It’s not all that nice at this time of year. It will be misty, and very cold. And you can’t go up in the mountains when the weather’s so bad – it’s not safe. No, we’re going to Bavaria. There’ll be snow – we can go sledging.’

Douggie still looked sceptical, and Douglas realised that he was falling back too heavily onto Huth’s assumption that the promise of snow would be enough to win his son over. Douggie said, ‘But it will be cold in Bavaria, just like it will in Cumbria.’

‘Douggie…’ Douglas nearly reached out and ruffled his son’s hair, as he had when he was younger – but instead he put a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’ll visit Harry one day, I promise. We’ll go in the summer, when it’s warm. And when we know that his cousin will be able to put us up in his cottage without us freezing to death. As it is, I’m not sure that they have enough blankets.’

Cautiously, Douggie smiled. In fact, thought Douglas, Cumbria in the cold and mist sounded rather inviting. To be up in the hills, far from anywhere, and especially far from any German – nothing but cloud and grass and rock. It would make Munich, and Berlin – and London, even – seem like they had not been real.

But they had. And then there was Harry. It would be some time before Douglas felt that he could look Harry in the eye again.

Douggie had been thinking. He said, ‘If we’re going to Bavaria on holiday now, then will we go to London for Christmas?’

‘Another year,’ said Douglas automatically. ‘We’ll stay in Berlin this year. I know it will seem quiet, Douggie, but…’ He trailed off. Last Christmas had been difficult, for many reasons, but Mrs Sheenan had been kind. Her presence, and that of her son, had probably helped make things fractionally less lonely for Douggie. This year, it would be just the two of them. It made his wife’s absence loom large.

‘It’s all right, Dad,’ said Douggie quietly.

Douglas looked at his son. He wished that he could tell him how proud he felt that he still wanted to go back to London, and that the delights of a winter vacation in Germany held nothing for him compared with the prospect of visiting Harry. He wanted to tell the boy how grateful he was that he had remained uncorrupted. But to call attention to it would be to ruin it, to spoil its innocent nature. Douglas could only admire his son’s strength of character in silence.

And there was another reason for him to keep quiet: he feared the day when it all changed. How long could his son retain his loyalties to his home country while he lived here amongst the Germans? 

They would be coming home from their holiday a day early, for Douggie had an invite to a party. Each year, his friend Martin’s parents held a gathering for their son’s schoolmates during the first weekend in December. What was more, Douggie had been asked to spend the whole weekend with them – they would collect him on the Friday, and Douglas would not see him again until the Sunday.

From what little Douggie had said about the party, Douglas had ascertained that it would be a glittering occasion. No doubt an invitation was much sought after. He knew that his son was looking forward to it, and did not begrudge him that; but it made him uneasy.

In his more fearful moments, he convinced himself that Douggie would become used to such events, and begin to regard them as normal. And then, perhaps, he would grow up into a man like Huth: someone so certain of his high rank in life’s hierarchy that he would countenance almost anything in order to retain it.

 

The afternoon before departing for Bavaria, Douglas collated the paperwork from the Mühlbach investigation to pass to Huth. There was something almost satisfying about the task; it created the momentary illusion that the entire affair could be contained within a single drawer of a filing cabinet, rather than having lasted for years and ruined numerous lives. And he could not deny that he felt relief when he gave Huth the list of file numbers. He need not think about it now for more than a week.

Huth read down the list with unnecessary care. He put the document back in front of him on his desk, and placed his fingertips on it, as though to ensure that it would not go anywhere. Still staring at it, he said, ‘I gave orders that Dietrich and Steiner be moved to Berlin.’ He paused, waiting to see if Douglas would respond. Disappointed in this hope, he said, ‘But Steiner has died of his injuries.’

Douglas thought of Steiner back at the camp, barely able to speak, bent over in agony. He supposed that his death should not have come as a surprise but, striking him unexpectedly like this, it raised a multitude of memories that he had hoped to bury.

Into the deep silence that he had created with the news, Huth said, ‘I will see to it that Dietrich is released once he has given evidence. You have my word.’

Douglas understood that he was expected to express gratitude, but he did not care to do so. Instead he said coldly, ‘I hope you’re thankful every day of your life that you had Professor Springer to protect you from Mühlbach.’ He saw Huth absorb his words, scowl, grit his teeth.

‘I am,’ said Huth at last. ‘I never took Springer’s patronage lightly. You know that.’

Douglas did not answer him. He knew that Steiner had probably been beyond help by the time that he met him, and he realised that it was unjust of him to direct his anger at Huth, but he had no more energy to give to the matter. He did not want to sit and talk it through – nothing would make him feel better about it. All he wanted was to be gone: from this office, from this building, and from Huth himself. Now that Huth had the paperwork, there was nothing to keep him here. Trying to draw a close to the meeting, he said, ‘I will be back next Friday afternoon.’

‘Very good.’ Huth stood up, a precursor to dismissing his subordinate. Then, thrown out as carelessly as some pleasantry about Douglas’s holiday, he said, ‘I may still be in London at that time, but with any luck I will have returned.’

This, Douglas realised, was what he got for trying to seize control of the situation from Huth. ‘Why are you going to London?’ he said, left with no choice but to respond to Huth’s cue.

‘To arrest Mühlbach,’ said Huth, managing by his inflection to include a tacit _“of course!”_ at the end of the sentence.

Douglas closed his eyes, opened them again, and stared at his commanding officer. Why did Huth have to do this, he wondered – why could he not make more sense? He was a clever man; he planned things meticulously; he put himself in possession of all the facts – and then he suddenly gave the impression that he needed constant supervision to stop him doing something idiotic. Why did he have to throw himself with such reckless energy at every task that he undertook?

There was very little of this that he could communicate to Huth, but he did the best that he could. ‘Why on earth are you going next week?’ he said.

‘Why not?’ said Huth. ‘We have all the evidence we need of his past affairs, and Boerner has found someone in Soho willing to oblige. As early as tomorrow, perhaps, our man will be able to testify that Mühlbach is carrying on with his habits in London.’

‘Then we don’t have _all_ the evidence yet, do we?’ said Douglas. He knew that his consternation was becoming obvious, and had the distinct feeling that Huth was enjoying it.

‘I hesitated in arresting Kellerman, didn’t I? And look what happened there.’ Huth gazed at Douglas, his eyes slightly narrowed. ‘Any particular reason you’ve gone cold on this all of a sudden, Archer? Perhaps you want to give Mühlbach the chance to order another hundred or so people taken into custody?’

‘Of course not. It just… I wish you could slow down for once in your life!’ Seeing the expression on Huth’s face, Douglas wondered how long it had been since anyone had tried to talk sense into him. Not since Springer’s death, he supposed. ‘We planned this,’ he said, trying to modulate his tone. ‘We did this together – we worked on this together. Why rush now – why not wait for me to get back?’

And now Huth was smirking. ‘I see. You want to be present for his arrest.’ He looked down at the files that Douglas had given him, distant suddenly, as if rehearsing the moment that he confronted Mühlbach. Then he looked back up and said abruptly, ‘You don’t have the stomach for it.’

The change in Huth’s tone surprised Douglas. ‘I don’t know where you get the idea that I haven’t made arrests before,’ he said.

‘You’ve never arrested one of the Hans Mühlbachs of this world. I have. I’ve done this sort of thing a hundred times.’

It was amazing, thought Douglas, that Huth could rattle off the words at such speed and yet sound so weary. Huth said, ‘He won’t come quietly – he’ll make an ugly scene. He’ll want to throttle me on the spot, of course, and I’ll have to get some of my men to step in and stop him from trying anything. You being present for it wouldn’t achieve a thing.’

Douglas felt indignant. Huth knew quite well how many times he had been set upon, shot at, or otherwise put in danger. What did he mean by it, saying that Mühlbach at bay posed too great a threat to him?

But then, suddenly, he understood. It was for Huth’s own sake that he did not want Douglas to be present.

Huth had been anxious to make his new assistant into a Nazi, but the moment that Douglas himself had tried to effect this metamorphosis he had ceased to derive any pleasure from it. Now, surely going against what he knew to be rational and sensible, he wanted something else from Douglas. He wanted to have dinner with him and sit up late into the night talking; and quite probably he wanted more than just to talk. And he no longer wanted to confront him with the reality of their work, the truth about the man that he was. That was why he did not want Douglas to visit concentration camps or to witness the end results of the internecine rivalry within the SS.

Douglas said quietly, ‘If you’re trying to protect me from any unpleasantness, then you’ve left it a bit late.’

‘You’re an ungrateful swine.’ Huth’s voice was flat, drained of energy. He knew that his motives had been deciphered. ‘Cautioning me against going to London! What about you? You put yourself in these situations – you insist on taking yourself off to Dachau, or that damned camp you decided to infiltrate back in England, and then you come and complain to me when you don’t like what you find there. Just do as I say: take your son on holiday, and leave this to me. It’s not difficult, is it, to obey an order?’

Huth was set on going, of course – there was no reasoning with him. Questioning or contradicting him only ever strengthened his resolve to do whatever he had set his mind to. His father, perhaps, had questioned his decisions a decade ago, and Huth’s stubbornness and pride had helped lead him to the position that he occupied now. Douglas made to walk out of the office.

But then he thought of Alexander Steiner again, and all the others who had fallen foul of Mühlbach, listed there in the documents on Huth’s desk; and he could not force himself to leave. He walked back over to Huth.

‘I objected to your going to London because I know what sort of man Mühlbach is,’ he said. ‘And I know what he has done to people who have crossed him before. I have no interest in being present for his arrest, but I’m worried that it’s not safe, for you. I’m concerned for your safety. I can’t put it any more clearly than that.’

And then, while Huth was still looking at him and trying to formulate a response, he left. He was well aware that what he said would not do any good – Huth would go to London, and they could only hope that his confidence was not misplaced. But, Douglas thought, he might have given him something to think about on the flight over.


	27. Chapter 27

Douggie loved the snow. Douglas could not help but be amused by the fact that Huth, having played no part in the trip’s planning or execution, had put something of himself into it simply by predicting this.

The higher that they travelled into the mountains, the more excited Douggie became. The precipitous slopes, the pine trees and the little wooden houses were like something from a picture book. Douglas himself remembered such images from his childhood. Even after the first war, his mother had spoken fondly of Germany to him. Alongside what he knew from her tales of the time she had spent in Berlin, he had always held another image of the country in his mind: a fairy tale land of thick forests and isolated castles, where one was just as likely to meet a witch or a heroic knight as a peasant tending to his cows. Stirring faintly, after all this time, he felt the sense of loss that he had experienced ten years ago when it became clear that the country was turning in on itself, pursuing urges that were more horrible than any fairy tale because they were quite real.

Night had long since fallen by the time that they got to the hotel, and Douggie had to wait until the next morning before they could go out in the snow. Douglas had intended that they would have breakfast beforehand, but he gave in to his son’s pleading, and they left the building almost as soon as it was light. Only once he had engaged his father in a snowball fight was Douggie persuaded to go back inside.

They had several more snowball fights during the week, and they went sledging as Douglas had promised. They went exploring in the woods, following the tracks of deer, and even sighting one, just briefly, slipping away between the trees. When Douggie learned that there were no bears or wolves to be found in Bavaria, he promptly announced his intention to visit some country further east one day, so that he could see them. Douglas did not attempt to put him off the idea.

In the afternoons they drank hot chocolate by the fire in the hotel lounge, or else Douggie went to trail after the hotel staff. They were all kind to the boy: they slipped him treats from the kitchens, and let him help decorate the large tree in the lobby. Before long, he had suggested casually to his father that perhaps they could come back to visit for Christmas next year.

One morning, as they stood at the front of the hotel watching the skiers pass by, Douggie said, ‘Martin told me that his parents are taking him skiing next year. He said that I could go with them, if he asks them.’

Douglas did not know how much trust to put in Martin’s powers of persuasion, so he said carefully, ‘Well, we’d have to see.’

‘Martin would have lessons,’ his son persisted. ‘And I could too.’

Perhaps it would make sense for his son to learn, Douglas thought. After all, as Huth still felt the need to remind him, the boy was German now. Knowing how to ski would serve him better here than it ever would have done in England. And what was the harm, especially if the organisational aspect could be passed to the Gesslers, Martin’s parents?

Then again, they might be going back to London. For all of Huth’s bravado, the possibility still seemed so remote to Douglas that he had not properly considered it. Did he really want to go back? He did not know. It would be disruptive for Douggie, now that he had begun to settle in, and disruptive for Douglas too. Any role for him back at Scotland Yard would be far more difficult for him now than it had a year ago – and more difficult even than the uneasy equilibrium that he maintained in Berlin. But if Huth’s scheme paid off then he would no longer have to walk into the building at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse every day; he would not have to mix exclusively with officers of the SD; and he need attend no more meetings with the Reichsführer. That would go a good way towards compensating for whatever hostility he met with in London.

Everything back in Berlin seemed utterly remote from the landscape of Bavaria; but frequently during the holiday Douglas could not keep himself from imagining what was going on in London at that precise moment. He imagined a few words spoken carelessly to Mühlbach by a young man serving drinks in some officers’ club, a grimy back street in Soho where the Gruppenführer would be tempted back into his former habits. He imagined the observation car, and Huth’s photographer taking pictures of Mühlbach entering the building. The whole sequence played itself out in his head more than once, and each time it made him feel unclean. He hoped that Huth’s informant would be well compensated, at least, and would be put in no danger by the whole undertaking. He tried to tell himself that he should not be concerned. Huth, for the most part, saw that the people who helped him in his enquiries were protected.

Despite the indifference that he had expressed to Huth, Douglas could not help but imagine the moment of Mühlbach’s arrest. Mühlbach would know that something was amiss the moment Huth entered his office – the office that had once been Kellerman’s – but he would recover himself and say, _“Oskar. What brings you here?”_ Only when Huth replied, _“I do hope that you haven’t made yourself too comfortable, Hans.”_ would he realise that everything was about to come crashing down around him. The thought brought Douglas both satisfaction and revulsion.

If he stayed lost in thought for too long, Douggie would tug on his sleeve, wanting to ask his father a question, show him some animal that he had spotted, or point out the speed and skill of a particular skier. Douglas would drag himself back to the moment, and try not to think about whatever Huth might be doing.

 

Douglas went into the office for a while on the Friday afternoon they returned to Berlin. He did not bother changing into his uniform – it was only a few short hours before he would take Douggie out to one of the city’s Christmas markets to meet Martin and his parents.

No-one commented on Douglas’s attire. Huth was the only person who would undoubtedly have done so, and he was absent. When Douglas asked around there was no news of him, and nor had he left any message. Of course, this did not mean that he was out of the country, or even out of the building. There was no word of Mühlbach either. If Huth had gone to London hoping to bring back a scandal to present to the Reichsführer then he had either failed or accomplished it so successfully as to suppress all details instantly under a blanket of secrecy.

Towards the end of the day, Douglas gave up on any hope of Huth appearing. He left a note with his whereabouts if anyone should need him at short notice, and went to collect Douggie.

Douggie had been bitterly disappointed when first he had seen the Lustgarten during one of their walks around the city. As a scholar of the German language he had learned to rely on words meaning exactly what they said, and his sense of betrayal upon finding that the space was no longer, in fact, a garden had been almost comical to witness. The conversion of a garden to a parade ground – and site for rallies – seemed to Douglas an apt metaphor for the current German regime, but he kept this to himself.

Now, however, Douggie was entranced. This Christmas, Germany was no longer at war, and it showed itself in the lights, the decorations, and most of all the people. Their leaders might insist that Germany would remain in a state of perpetual war until all enemies were conquered, but they intended to enjoy themselves. Ignoring the cold, they bustled between the brightly lit stalls, poring over the wood carvings, glassware and jewellery; and they clustered near the tall Christmas tree in the centre of the square, drinking and laughing together.

Douggie wanted to look at each stall, with the result that they had seen no more than half of the market before Martin and his parents appeared. Douggie’s enjoyment was doubled by the arrival of his friend, and Douglas tried to ignore the fact that his own pleasure was diminished. The two boys darted ahead, sometimes splitting up and shouting to each other about what they had found. Douglas walked a short way behind with Herr and Frau Gessler.

Willi Gessler was, as far as appearances went, an intelligent, urbane man, but Douglas had come to realise that he carried within him a virulent and uncompromising strain of stupidity. He had not yet formed an opinion on whether this was innate or whether Gessler had contracted it during his long years at the Propaganda Ministry. Gessler was always genial, but Douglas had the feeling that he filed every detail of their interactions away in his memory to provide inspiration for some future piece on Britain and its people. Whether this would say that the British were splendid fellows or that they were thoroughly untrustworthy would be up to Goebbels.

In Frau Lina Gessler’s eyes, Douglas thought that he saw a look of sympathy – an awkwardness that she could not quite overcome. Douglas was not invited to the weekend party. Few parents were coming to this particular event – he was not alone in that – and yet he knew implicitly that he would never be asked to socialise with the Gesslers’ friends. His origins counted against him, as did his lack of a wife; and, over and above everything else, he was a member of the SD. The Gesslers and their friends were all loyal Nazis, but they drew the line at taking any of the regime’s more sinister agents into their home – unless they held a general’s rank.

They stopped by the Christmas tree, where the two boys craned their necks and tried ineptly to guess its height. The Gesslers asked Douglas about his holiday; and Herr Gessler expounded at length upon the charms of Bavaria in the winter, as though Douglas had not just visited there himself. At length, Frau Gessler began to look cold in her elegant coat. Her husband fidgeted, stamping his feet. Douglas understood that they were eager to go. He called Douggie over and handed him his small suitcase.

‘Now, you be good,’ he said to him.

‘He always is,’ said Frau Gessler emphatically, with what Douglas guessed was a mixture of genuine praise and relief that they were about to depart.

‘Enjoy yourself, Douggie. I expect to hear all about it on Sunday night.’

Douglas watched the little family, and his son with them, walk away down the avenue of lighted stalls and disappear into the crowds. Without them, without Douggie, he was an observer again. The market would continue to happen around him, but there was no longer anything for him to do here. He ought to go home.

Douglas had reached the outskirts of the market when he noticed a tall figure pause beneath a streetlight at the edge of the square. For once, he had seen Huth before Huth saw him – although he did not recognise him at first. Huth was wearing a hat and an overcoat that Douglas had never seen before. He approached the market at an unhurried pace – by his standards – but still with that nervous energy that he was unable to shake off. He had a scarf wrapped around his neck, and from his slightly hunched posture it was obvious that he was cold. Presumably the weather had been milder in London.

Douglas stayed where he was, lingering in the shadow of the last stall in the row. Only when Huth was very close did he make a movement to draw his attention. Then Huth turned and saw him.

Huth walked over, looking at Douglas look at him. ‘What?’ he said.

Douglas said, ‘Just that it’s rare to see you out of uniform.’ What he meant, he supposed, was: _Thank goodness you’re back_. He trusted that Huth understood that without him saying it.

Huth shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t want to scandalise your son’s friends.’ He looked around as though expecting to see Douggie emerge from somewhere, and then said, ‘But I suppose that he has gone with the Gesslers now, for the weekend?’

‘Yes.’

The two men fell into step, walking towards the centre of the market. Douglas had been eager to leave but now, somehow, he did not mind retracing his steps through the lights and the throng of people.

‘How was your holiday?’ said Huth.

‘Most enjoyable, thank you.’ Huth was building up the suspense, waiting to choose his moment. Douglas knew that he would get to the point in time.

They stopped in front of the Christmas tree. Douglas noticed how Huth tipped his head back to see the top, trying to gauge its height, just as Douggie had.

‘We’ll be moving to London in the New Year,’ said Huth. ‘That’s what I came to tell you.’ He lowered his eyes and glanced at Douglas, watching him carefully to see his reaction.

‘Good,’ said Douglas, and he meant it. Whether it was purely on account of Mühlbach having met with his comeuppance, or because he truly wanted to go back to London, he would wait for another day to decide.

The two men stood in silence. Douglas was aware of the market moving around them, the constant ebb and flow of the crowd, and he knew that anywhere else, he and Huth might have aroused suspicion. The stilted nature of their conversation would have done it, or the nervous set of Huth’s shoulders as he wondered what to say next. But here, just briefly, the people around them had shaken off the ever-present suspicion that ruled the Nazi state. They were enjoying themselves too much to care about who the two strangers were or what they were saying to each other.

Huth said, ‘Come back to my apartment? We can talk more about it there.’ He turned aside and busied himself looking at the Christmas tree again, already preparing never to have made the offer at all.

Douglas considered. He had plenty to do back at his own apartment, empty though it was with Douggie absent. He needed to unpack from his holiday, and he must think about arrangements for Christmas. And now he had the added task of deciding how he would break the news of the move to Douggie, and to Fräulein Taube.

Or, of course, he could go with Huth.

‘It’s getting late,’ said Douglas. Huth looked at him, trying to work out what he meant, and Douglas almost wanted to laugh. Perhaps it was cruel of him to answer equivocally, but Huth could stand to be kept waiting. He should take it as recompense for some of his own behaviour over the past year. Douglas decided to put him out of his misery.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘What are we waiting for?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time we’re in London, and moving into the final few chapters…


	28. Chapter 28

February 1943

Once dinner was over, while the table was still being cleared, they took their drinks up to the sitting room on the first floor. ‘Sturmbannführer Archer and I must talk in private,’ said Huth amiably, and received a volley of respectful nods from the servants. Douglas followed close behind him as they climbed the stairs, half amused and half ashamed that, as ever, the staff firmly believed he and Huth were discussing some urgent security matter.

The sitting room lay at the front of the house and was, like the rest of the villa, grand in design but rather sterile in its décor. Whoever had been assigned to find a residence for Huth appeared to have worked by the method of identifying houses with the sorts of interiors that Kellerman would have favoured, and then rejecting them. Thus far, Huth himself had colluded in the overall lack of ambience by neglecting to bring more than a few of his possessions to London with him. Of all the rooms, only his study gave the impression that anyone lived here. The rest of it might as well have been a hotel. Douglas sat in one of the pristine armchairs, watching Huth cross to the window and draw back the bolt to push it open a crack. He stood there, looking down with his habitual, fixed concentration.

Douglas did not believe that he expected to see or hear much. In this heavily cordoned enclave beside Holland Park they were buffered from the sirens and occasional gunfire that had become background noise in the rest of the capital. Only senior members of the German regime lived on these streets – along with their families and their functionaries. And everyone, even junior officers returning drunk to their lodgings, knew better than to make too much noise as they passed close to the residence of the Senior SS and Police Leader of Great Britain. Huth was hoping to watch the servants leave, Douglas decided – waiting for the moment when they would be alone in the house.

‘There was some part of my briefing today that you took issue with?’ said Huth, still staring out into the dark.

Douglas had hoped in vain that Huth might drop his habit of starting conversations like this, at least outside the office. ‘I don’t recall objecting to anything that you said.’

‘No, but something’s up. I assumed that it concerned the briefing.’ Huth half-turned to look at Douglas. He could not possibly be comfortable, leaning there against the windowsill, but it was all too obvious that he was prepared to stand there staring all evening until he got an answer.

Douglas, however, had neither the time nor the stamina. ‘Your intention to assign British policemen to political duties,’ he said.

‘Only those who volunteer,’ said Huth, as though this would sweep away all Douglas’s objections. ‘They will be given training –’

‘And financial inducements, I suppose?’

‘The more closely the SS and the police can work together, the easier it will be for all my officers to do their jobs.’ Huth’s voice carried a distinct air of finality. Douglas did not argue with him. He had thrown himself pointlessly against this particular brick wall before.

Huth sighed. ‘Archer, you know how things have been at Scotland Yard. Kellerman let the police do whatever they liked just as long as he was out of the office by five pm…’

 _Yes,_ Douglas wanted to say. _That was what I_ liked _about him._

‘… and Mühlbach treated every single British native that he met with utter contempt. I’m trying to untangle the mess that they’ve created.’

Douglas held up his hands. ‘All right! Just reassure me that I won’t be asked to launch a recruitment drive.’ Amongst the many tasks assigned to him in recent weeks was liaison with the British police at Scotland Yard.

‘Oh, you’re welcome to tell them that there’s nothing to be gained by cooperating with the SD in exchange for better living conditions – if you think that they’ll believe that, coming from you.’

‘I’ll take that as a “no”, shall I?’

Huth turned back to the window without answering. Douglas heard it too, now: the noise of the servants leaving by the back door. Huth smiled. ‘Try to be satisfied with your new job, Sturmbannführer. Our move to London got you promoted again, didn’t it? And before you tell me you don’t care about promotions, think about whether you’d have wanted to leave Scotland Yard as a superintendent, and return as a mere captain.’

‘Forgive me for my ingratitude,’ said Douglas. ‘Although I’ve yet to see you celebrating your own promotion.’

‘Himmler only made me a Brigadeführer because he couldn’t have anyone lower in rank than a general running things over here.’ Huth sounded dismissive. ‘It would have looked weak, after the run of bad luck he’s had with the previous two incumbents.’

And, Douglas supposed, the Reichsführer had been forced to give Huth his desired job in Britain because, frankly, what other choice did he have? Huth had indicated clearly enough that he intended to remove every obstacle in his way until he got what he wanted. One wondered how even Heinrich Himmler managed to sleep at night when he surrounded himself with such men.

‘And you still don’t seem satisfied,’ Douglas said to Huth.

Huth closed the window and began to draw the curtains. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Why would I be? I never got anywhere by being satisfied with what I already had.’

‘Then I rather wonder where that leaves me,’ said Douglas, only partly joking.

‘Don’t be so stupid.’ Drink still in hand, Huth dropped onto the sofa next to Douglas’s chair, and smiled at him. ‘I’m thankful that we’re in London now, not Berlin,’ he said quietly. ‘You should be too.’ He did not have to explain to Douglas what he meant. 

Some evenings, Huth’s smile would have been enough, or the way that he casually placed a hand on the sofa beside him, in invitation. But Huth saw that this evening was different. ‘And now, I suppose, you’re going to tell me that you can’t stay?’

‘I’m terribly sorry – I hadn’t realised that you were trying to put me in the mood,’ said Douglas evenly. Then again, with all his talk of promotions and “cooperation with the SD”, perhaps that had been exactly what Huth was doing.

Huth smirked into his drink, raising a hand in a gesture of defeat. ‘No call for explanations, Douglas. Get back and say goodnight to your son.’

On those occasions when Douglas did stay, Huth had no difficulty communicating his desire for him – his need, even. But every single time he went through the same motions beforehand, pretending that it made no odds to him whether Douglas stayed or went. Douglas left him sitting on the sofa, lighting a cigarette.

Douglas often wondered if anything would ever have happened between them had Huth not come and found him at the market that night. They might have got drunk together some other evening, he supposed – celebrating their arrival in London – and Huth could have seized his moment. But by then their knowledge of Mühlbach’s fate might have brought the potential consequences of their actions into sharper relief.

In recognition of his long years of service, and to spare Himmler any embarrassment so soon after the Kellerman scandal, Mühlbach had been made a generous offer in exchange for his cooperation. A quiet death in his own home, coming after a short, unexpected illness, or so the reports said; a full pension for the widowed Frau Mühlbach; a funeral with a speech by Himmler and all the other honours that he could reasonably have expected. ‘What a farce!’ Huth had said to Douglas after the ceremony. ‘But it would have been remarked upon if we weren’t in attendance. And one prefers to confirm that a man like Mühlbach is definitely dead.’ Douglas had never bothered asking whether it was Huth’s idea in the first place that Mühlbach be permitted to take poison.

Perhaps that was what had weighed on Huth, that first night in his apartment. Even there, safe from any prying eyes, he had been hesitant. Douglas recalled looking across at him across the room, illuminated by the soft light of a standard lamp, and finding that his mind strayed back to the thick forests covered in snow, guarding their secrets. Huth was like some infuriating creature from a fairy tale: he primed his trap, lured you to him and then, when you wanted to reach him, you found yourself unable to.

When Huth got up and went to a side table to replenish his drink, Douglas followed him. He put a hand on Huth’s arm. ‘If we planned to sit up all night drinking, we could have done that back at the office.’

Huth put down his glass. But, when Douglas leaned forward to kiss him, he reciprocated only tentatively. Douglas could feel how his muscles tensed. He went to move his hand to Huth’s face, but Huth pulled gently away.

‘You’re certain about that, are you?’ said Huth quietly.

Perhaps he wanted to give Douglas one final chance to turn back before continuing with this act of illegality. Perhaps after so long resisting he could not make himself give in. Or perhaps, knowing the man that he was, he just needed to hear Douglas say it out loud.

‘Well, aren’t you?’ said Douglas.

‘Of course _I’m_ certain.’

‘Then you can stop trying to be chivalrous, Oskar, if that’s what you’re doing. I came back here with you, didn’t I?’

After that, Huth had not needed to hear any more. In the stories, Douglas recalled, there was often some magic word needed to break a spell. Maybe with Huth it was simply calling him by his name.

And now Huth had persuaded him that it could continue here in London, even under the eyes of Huth’s entourage and servants, even in this closed quarter of the city, surrounded by guards. For who would suspect that Huth might denounce a rival for homosexuality and then commence an affair with his assistant? Few men would be so foolhardy. The sheer hypocrisy of it would have gnawed away at Douglas, once, but in truth he barely thought about it.

It was a mere few minutes’ walk back to Douglas’s house. At night, with the streets empty, it became easier to forget who was occupying these grand houses; and it made his situation seem doubly unreal. He had little expected to ever find himself living in such a locale. What pleasure he derived from it came only from his closeness to Huth, and the safety that it afforded his son.

He entered the house to find the hall darkened and a chink of light escaping from the living room at the end of the hall. This winter was a cold one – even for the lucky few whose fuel was not rationed.

Fräulein Taube was sitting in an armchair, reading. She was working her way through Douglas’s Agatha Christie collection in a concerted effort to improve her English.

‘Did you enjoy your tour?’

‘Very much, Mr Archer.’ She had been to Greenwich that day, one of the several sightseeing trips organised by enterprising Londoners for their German visitors. Fräulein Taube, at least, was delighted to have come to London.

Against the base of the other armchair sat Douggie, cross-legged, sketchbook in his lap. He groaned softly when the family pet – the subject of his drawing – got up to greet Douglas.

‘Sorry, Douggie. I’m sure he’ll be asleep again soon. Won’t you, Monty?’

At present, the dog was leaning against his master’s shins, wagging his tail; but Douglas knew that before long he would return to the hearth rug and slump down in an attitude of collapse. ‘On the case as usual, Monty,’ he said, stroking the dog’s ears. ‘I distinctly heard you not barking as I approached the house.’

Douggie, who was already trying to coax Monty back, now all but pulled the animal towards him, wrapping his arms around his neck. ‘He’s a good guard dog, Dad,’ he said. ‘He only didn’t bark because he knew that it was you.’

‘Of course! Douggie, of course I know that.’ Just from his son’s stance, Douglas could tell that he genuinely feared that his pet might be taken away for his failings. The poor child’s education had certainly taught him to expect ruthlessness; but still it hurt that he expected it from his own father.

‘Monty knows that I was joking,’ said Douglas. ‘Don’t you?’ The dog waved his feathery tail, as if registering Douglas’s presence all over again. Douggie relaxed, releasing the dog back to his father.

Monty had been a gift from their neighbour, an elderly officer with a son in the Waffen-SS. The dog – almost certainly the result of a union between one of the invaders’ German Shepherds and some lurcher from a farm – had accompanied Franz Siegel’s unit back to London a few months ago when they returned from active duty in the North. And Gruppenführer Siegel, upon learning that Douggie wanted a pet, had spotted a chance to rid himself of the animal and ingratiate himself with Douglas all at once.

Monty’s ears were lopsided, and he smiled too much. He was still young, with the clumsy energy of a puppy. Huth had paid a visit last month to meet him, and had watched with a sort of amused despair as the animal snuffled around the boundary of the small garden at the back of the house. 

‘You do realise that Siegel might have intended to insult you by making you a gift of a crossbreed?’

‘And they say that the Germans don’t have a sense of humour.’

‘He’ll never make a guard dog.’

‘Well, too late to get rid of him now. The boy’s too attached.’

And Huth had looked at Douglas out of the corner of his eye, smirking. ‘The _boy’s_ grown attached?’

Monty returned to the fireside, and Douglas settled into the armchair. ‘How was school today?’

‘It was fine.’ Douggie had edged forward, his back still to the armchair, focusing on his sketchbook. Douglas took the opportunity to share a brief look with Fräulein Taube. Only there would he really get the truth of the matter. She collected Douggie from school, and could see whether he had ended the day angry or upset. By the evening Douggie had had time to conceal this from his father.

Douglas would have felt better if his son had expressed anything about their return to London – either excitement or resentment. But Douggie had remained stoic, even though the situation was far from easy for him. Both German and British children attended the Highgate school; but of course, Douggie did not fit neatly into either category. He knew this, and so did his classmates. Douglas suspected that, were it not for Monty, Douggie would almost wish that he were a boarding pupil at the school, rather than a day scholar, doubly shut out of the other boys’ camaraderie. 

But Douglas was damned if he was abandoning his son to the care of that school for any longer than a few hours at a time – even if it was true that sometimes he himself did not see his son from one day to the next. He told himself that things would be better once they had been here longer, once Huth was settled in his new role.

‘Homework done?’ he said to Douggie.

‘All done. Fräulein Taube helped.’

‘Good boy.’ The guilt that had been needling Douglas subsided a little. He sat and watched his son draw, reassuring himself that the clock on the mantelpiece stood at barely nine pm. He had not got back so late after all. Fräulein Taube had enjoyed herself today; and Douggie’s sketches of the dog were becoming really quite good. In truth, things were better than he could have hoped. Douglas gazed into the fire, letting its warmth blot out all thoughts of the chilly streets outside.


	29. Chapter 29

Huth never seemed entirely at ease in his new office. Douglas doubted that anyone else noticed how the room hampered him, how he found it difficult to speak freely. For Douglas, the removal of Kellerman’s possessions did much to dispel thoughts of the man, but he suspected that Huth found the room oppressive when he was forced to spend so much of his time there – feeling that the shades of Kellerman and Mühlbach still lingered.

Here – like everywhere else in the building – Douglas and Huth spoke to each other only as colleagues; they addressed each other as _Sie,_ never _du,_ and made no reference to their affair, even in private. Douglas had to admit that their precautions were successful – if anything, the officers who had accompanied Huth from Berlin probably imagined that he and Douglas spent less time in each other’s company than before.

When Douglas entered the office at six pm, Huth looked at him as though still expecting a reprieve. Douglas had none to offer. ‘The reception,’ he said. ‘It’s time we both went home to get ready.’

No doubt Huth had spent the entire day hoping for some emergency that would require his immediate attention and allow him to miss the reception; but he had been denied the excuse of a security breach, a Resistance attack or even a minor accident at Bringle Sands. Now he scowled, making no move to get up from his chair. Only Douglas’s certainty that he would never dream of meeting a roomful of dignitaries looking anything other than immaculate convinced him that Huth would not insist on staying another hour and leaving for the Savoy straight from the office.

‘Your car’s waiting,’ he said.

‘Fine,’ said Huth, admitting defeat. He followed Douglas out of the room, looking as though the presence of the car was, in and of itself, an imposition.

Although the general populace had long since ceased to hope for any improvement in their circumstances, there were those in London who felt optimistic about the new man at Scotland Yard. There were the merchants and businessmen who still thought wistfully of General Kellerman’s spending habits; but there were also the politicians and civil servants who had made their peace with the German occupiers – or thought that they had, until Mühlbach came along. Despite the bruising disappointment that they had experienced with the arrival of Huth’s predecessor, they found it within themselves to feel hopeful. After all, Dr Huth was quite different from Mühlbach: cultured, well-educated, fluent in English – he had even studied in Britain. Collectively, the upper echelons of London society had decided that they could have fared far worse. And they intended to make Huth welcome.

A little over an hour since leaving the office, Huth and Douglas got into the car once more. ‘Remind me who I have to meet this evening?’ said Huth.

‘The Prime Minister, amongst others. Almost everyone of any importance will be there.’ Douglas had been one of the officers who vetted the guest list. ‘You’ll be delighted to hear that the Army is well represented,’ he said, glancing across at Huth.

So despondent was Huth at the prospect of the evening awaiting them that he could not even glare with his usual ferocity. ‘You may think you’re being amusing, Archer, but I can assure you that you’re wrong.’

When the car drew up outside the Savoy, Douglas found that he was fooled, if only momentarily, by the scene that he glimpsed through the tinted glass of the window. The doormen on the steps, the golden light spilling out from the entrance and the faint sound of music coming from within combined to trick the senses. If one disregarded the checkpoints that they had needed to pass to reach the building, one could almost have believed that this was a party in the old days.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ said Huth.

For all his sullenness during the journey, Huth made the efforts that were expected of him. He greeted the Prime Minister genially, and complimented his wife on her dress, receiving a smile that had every sign of being genuine. Douglas watched Huth smile in turn at each of the politicians to whom he was being introduced, and guessed that he would last at least an hour before his patience and his charm wore thin. Indeed, it had been a quiet day – perhaps he would even manage two hours. After that, he would start casting about for one of his aides to fabricate an excuse to leave.

There were as many Germans present as British: bureaucrats, Party members and SS, as well as the Army. Major Paul von Heim of the Abwehr was there, recently posted to London. He was a slim, dark-haired, handsome man – and Douglas half-wondered in what capacity he and Huth had known each other at university. Huth and von Heim greeted each other with icy courtesy. They could not, after all, afford for anyone to know that they were acquainted.

Many of the British, however, spoke to Huth with warmth. This development continued to perplex him – he had only just taught himself not to look suspicious each time it happened. Douglas imagined that it could have been as much as a decade since anyone outside the SS had been pleased to see Huth. He recalled hearing of a speech that Himmler had made, years ago, in which he had declaimed proudly – and quite correctly – that the SS expected to be disliked. Huth had been left ill-equipped to comprehend any other reaction to his presence. 

Douglas lingered near Huth as he moved through the room, fielding all the polite questions that his superior was too important to deal with. British and Germans alike came to ask him if the Brigadeführer had settled into his new residence, whether he intended to acquire a country house too, once winter was over, whether he had brought a wife and family to London with him – or had left one in Berlin. Some of the guests who knew about Douglas’s own peculiar circumstances inquired after his son. At length, Douglas was drawn to one side by a woman a little older than himself, who had heard that Douggie’s school admitted British pupils. Douglas came to learn that Mrs Taverner, whose husband was a member of parliament, had decided that her son Henry might benefit from attending the German school.

‘It is a splendid school,’ said Douglas. He always found on these occasions that it was easiest not to listen too carefully to the words that were coming out of his own mouth. ‘I am sure that I could put in a good word for Henry if he were entered for a place.’ Mrs Taverner withdrew gratefully.

Huth had been pounced upon by a minor civil servant who claimed to know him from his days at Oxford, and was busy pretending that he remembered the man. No longer needed, Douglas went to fetch a glass of champagne. Feeling as though the eyes of the entire room were on him, he made his way to where some of his SS colleagues from Scotland Yard were standing together. The men whom Huth had brought over with him were bemoaning London’s privations, and those who had been here already were asking for news of Berlin. Douglas listened, saying little. He was, he well knew, tolerated rather than truly welcomed.

Douglas had returned to the drinks table when his gaze alighted on a familiar figure approaching. The man was slower of movement than he had been a year ago, perhaps slightly more stooped, but still unmistakeable. Sir Robert Benson. Douglas remembered the old man’s face, half in shadow, as they sat around the table playing cards in Sydney Garin’s mansion, that night when they recruited him to their plot. The only other two men present at that discussion were now dead; but Sir Robert had escaped entirely without blemish to his reputation.

Hemmed in by the other guests, Douglas could not readily move away without drawing attention to himself. He stayed where he was, and willed the man not to recognise him. He found himself doing that an awful lot these days. But then, when he got his wish and people did not seem to realise who he was, he felt hurt. Had he changed so much – did he really look so different from before? It had occurred to him recently that perhaps they did recognise him, but not as the man that he had once been. They passed him by because they had no desire to converse with the person that he was now.

Sir Robert Benson saw him. He nodded in recognition, quite without surprise or even any particular show of interest; and yet managed to communicate that Douglas was to have the honour of a conversation with him. Douglas waited while he fetched a drink, and then found himself drawn gently away, over towards the edge of the room.

‘Archer,’ said Sir Robert. ‘Or rather, I should say –?’ He blinked theatrically at the insignia on Douglas’s uniform. ‘I’m afraid you will have to help me – I don’t suppose I shall ever acquire the knack of recognising your SS ranks.’

‘Sturmbannführer,’ said Douglas. More for the purposes of translation than because the fact brought him any particular pride, he added, ‘Major.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Sir Robert made the sort of small, gruff noise that he might have used when congratulating a great-nephew on winning a school prize. He looked across the room, and Douglas followed his gaze. A short way away, Huth had been cornered by a group of diplomats. Sir Robert surveyed the scene with a benevolent smile. ‘I must admit,’ he said, ‘when you warned us that he was dangerous, I really hadn’t the slightest notion that you harboured ambitions of following Dr Huth back to Berlin to polish his boots for him.’

‘I had no such ambitions.’ Douglas spoke just as pleasantly as Sir Robert. ‘But life can take surprising turns, can’t it? A betting man wouldn’t have gambled on the Civil Service emerging intact once the plot to free the King had been discovered. And yet, a year later, here you are.’

‘Poor George Mayhew. He was a brave man.’

If Sir Robert was trying to make him feel guilty, Douglas thought, he would not get far. Mayhew might have been brave, but Douglas had come to understand what he really was. He had been, in his own way, no less ruthless than any of Huth’s kind.

‘But look at them now.’ Sir Robert nodded towards Huth, a faint gleam of bitter amusement lingering in his eyes. ‘People forget so easily. They forget that he’s the same man who uncovered the Mayhew plot, or they manage not to remember, at least. And he has been clever about it – cleverer perhaps than anyone expected, who had dealt with him before.’ Sir Robert gave Douglas a sidelong look. ‘Going to Windsor to pay his respects to the late King, for example. And out of uniform, too – most considerate of him, not to sully the chapel with the death’s head. Tell me, was that an idea of yours?’

‘You know me, Sir Robert. I was never one for politics. I am sure that the Brigadeführer himself wished to honour the King’s memory.’

Sir Robert emitted a dry laugh. ‘Please don’t think that I’m being critical, Archer. Quite the opposite: I’m impressed. You’re not the man that we took you for.’

‘I wonder where I would be now, if I had been,’ said Douglas.

‘Well, quite. We took you for an Englishman, for one thing – and you’re not that now, are you?’

They turned, looking each other in the face for the first time. Douglas held Sir Robert’s gaze, determined that he would continue to do so, no matter what the man had to say.

‘I do wonder if you will feel, in the end, that you’ve made the right choice.’ Sir Robert spoke quietly, but quite distinctly. ‘One never can know what to expect from the Germans. Some of our friends here –’ Sir Robert inclined his head in the direction of a cluster of Army officers nearby, ‘– seem to think that a new war is quite possible. If not inevitable, in fact.’

‘Really?’ said Douglas, taking care to sound neither too interested nor too sceptical.

Sir Robert looked around him with something very like satisfaction. ‘A curious thing, which I’m sure you will have noticed: how few Russians one sees these days. I remember a time when you couldn’t walk through a room at one of these functions without bumping into a dozen of them. You remember, Archer? Sydney Garin’s party?’ He did not wait for Douglas to share in his reminiscence. ‘Of course, the Highgate bombing…’

‘A senseless loss of life,’ said Douglas automatically.

‘So the Russians thought as well. And now… Now I seem to hear rumours every day about what passes for dialogue between Moscow and Berlin.’

‘You have friends in high places, of course,’ murmured Douglas. He had no doubt that Sir Robert still fraternised, albeit cautiously, with some of the German generals.

‘That makes two of us. Speaking of which, I mustn’t keep you from your master’s side any longer. I’ll leave you now, Archer – I’m sure that we shall speak again in future. Perhaps at some other such charming function.’

Sir Robert departed – quietly, unobtrusively, and yet somehow with the knack of making the crowd part before him to let him through.

 

‘Well, that was quite excruciating,’ said Huth, even before the car had pulled away from the hotel. He knew that he could, at last, speak his mind. To allow for such private conversations, he favoured drivers who understood virtually no English.

‘I suppose, all in all, you would have preferred to attend a post mortem,’ said Douglas.

Huth was more ready to be amused now that the ordeal of the reception was over. ‘Perhaps. It depends who you had in mind to occupy the slab.’ He paused. ‘Sir Robert Benson?’

Douglas was not wholly surprised that Huth had noticed Sir Robert even while talking to a succession of other guests. ‘The idea has its charms,’ he said.

‘What did he want, anyway?’

‘To admonish me. Or to congratulate me. I don’t think he was really certain himself.’

‘He has little to be proud of.’ Huth was staring out of the window, watching the dim side streets appear in succession and blur out of sight. The lamplight played across his face. ‘You don’t know the half of the legal gymnastics he performed to exonerate himself of all blame in the Mayhew affair.’ Turning towards Douglas, he said, ‘There are offices in Whitehall still sitting empty so that their former occupants could take Sir Robert’s place in the cells. Leaving him free to wander around drinks receptions telling people off.’

Huth reached out and punched Douglas lightly on the arm, grinning, as though the idea of the imprisoned civil servants amused him. Douglas understood that he was trying to provide reassurance in the best way that he could, here, with the driver present. ‘Sir Robert also wanted to talk about the Russians,’ he said. ‘More rumours of war.’

Huth waited, his face impassive. He knew that Douglas expected him to verify this. Finally, he said, ‘I have also heard rumours to that effect.’

‘Should we be concerned?’ said Douglas, keeping his voice light. ‘What does your friend Paul say?’

Huth raised an eyebrow. ‘My friend Paul, if I happened to have met with him over the past weeks, would probably say the same as Sir Robert’s sources.’

‘Which is?’

‘The General Staff are only too eager.’ Huth had returned to gazing out of the window, but his posture was more slumped than it had been before. ‘The Führer has never trusted the generals, and those who are loyal to him are desperate to prove their worth.’ He sighed. ‘They have been making preparations since the autumn.’

They did not talk for the rest of the journey. Perhaps each of them feared that to discuss the prospect of impending war any further would call it into being. Once they had passed through the checkpoint in Kensington, Huth said, ‘You’re coming inside?’

‘I ought to get back home,’ said Douglas. Even now he found himself drawn into the same game that Huth played, always feeling the need to put up some token resistance.

Huth laughed softly. ‘What, and risk waking that animal you call a guard dog?’ Douglas did not refuse a second time.

The servants had left the hall lights on and drawn the curtains. Huth closed the front door behind him and followed Douglas through to the large sitting room at the back of the house.

Douglas experienced the strange dissonance that he felt every time he visited at night, when the rooms seemed at their most impersonal. It would take little more than half an hour for Huth’s possessions to be gathered and moved out, leaving no sign that he had ever been here. The knowledge of this transience, this fragility of their shared situation, impressed itself on Douglas more forcefully than usual, as though the evening were weaving itself into a memory and slipping away from him, even before it had happened.

Trying to shake the feeling off, he went to stoke the fire. Carefully, he removed his tunic before crouching by the grate to add more coal.

By the time that Douglas had stepped away from the fireplace, Huth was passing him a measure of whiskey. He looked pensive, and yet when Douglas raised his glass to him he laughed. ‘What exactly are we celebrating?’

‘The reception’s over with, for one thing.’

‘True.’ Huth turned away, putting down his drink. He raised his hands to his collar and removed the Knight’s Cross from around his neck. Holding it in his palm, he stared at it, as though not recognising it as his. ‘Christ, what an awful party,’ he said, almost to himself.

‘It was.’ Douglas’s hand found Huth’s. He took the medal from him, and placed it next to Huth’s drink on the side table.

He watched Huth unbutton his tunic and cast it aside, noticing – as he always did – how much more freely he moved without it. Douglas went to hand him back his drink, but Huth shook his head. Coming to stand very close to Douglas, he reached forward, and began to undo the buttons on his shirt.

‘I see,’ said Douglas.

Huth smiled. ‘You know that I don’t like to waste any time.’

 

Douglas woke in the early hours, suddenly, as though from a nightmare. For a moment he forgot where he was, and the sense of loss that had followed him from his dreams was desolating. He woke up in this way frequently, always with the feeling of having mislaid or forgotten something that he could not retrieve. The talk of the Russians had caused it this time, he supposed.

It was not even that he knew Sylvia might have been sent to one of the camps in the East – for she might very well be dead. It was all of them, of every nationality, the thousands that he knew to be imprisoned out there. How much worse might things become for them in the event of the Germans launching themselves once again into war? Douglas had come to know all too well what war did to individuals, and to whole nations. He could not simply forget about its victims, not in the way that Huth could.

As far as Douglas knew, Huth never woke in the night. By one means or another, he always managed to exhaust himself so thoroughly before retiring to bed that he could do nothing other than sleep deeply. Perhaps it was a habit that he had trained himself into, in order to get any sleep at all.

Douglas looked at him. Huth was turned towards him, his breathing soft and regular, and his face far more peaceful than it had any right to be. It was still disconcerting to see him in repose, considering what he was like when awake: perpetually combative, never satisfied, looking always to his next conquest.

Except, it seemed, in one matter. Of all of Huth’s successes in the time he had known him, Douglas himself was one of the few things that Huth had never lost interest in, or cast aside, or decided was not good enough for him the second that he attained it. It was all the more painful, then, to realise that what they had forged between them must, at some point, come to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sir Robert Benson (and why he is a bit of a shit)
> 
> In the TV series, Sir Robert Benson only appears once, at the secret card-playing meeting in Episode 2, and is relatively inoffensive. In the novel he turns up again and is depicted less favourably, in keeping with the overall theme of “many of the Britons are just as ruthless as the Nazis.”
> 
> In brief, Archer blunders into Sir Robert’s gentlemen’s club looking for help after the ambulance breaks down, whereupon Sir Robert more or less refuses to assist (largely for reasons of self-preservation), despite the fact that at that moment the King of England is sitting outside the club in a wheelchair. So I imagine that he would definitely have found some way of keeping his position even once the plot was uncovered.


	30. Chapter 30

March 1943

Detective Sergeant Jenkins brought Douglas the news. He entered the office wearing his usual expression: tired and faintly apologetic. A diligent man who spoke a little German, Jenkins had been brought in from Outer London a year ago to replace Harry Woods. Many of the other policemen at Scotland Yard forgave him none of it. Consequently, acknowledging a fellow outsider, he had reacted to Douglas’s appointment with neither anger nor scorn – unlike many of his compatriots.

‘What is it, Jenkins?’ said Douglas.

‘We’ve had word that someone’s found a body, sir.’

‘I see. And are you going to take a look, or one of the others?’

‘None of us, sir. Obersturmführer –’ he faltered slightly over the rank ‘– Boerner is to handle the investigation. But I thought that you would want to know.’

Douglas frowned. The appearance of a corpse – whether murder or otherwise – would ordinarily be a police rather than an SD matter. Boerner owed him the courtesy of an explanation. ‘Thank you, Jenkins. I’ll find out what’s going on.’

Boerner spent a good deal of his time these days looking busy and important. Huth had tasked him with some particular project that he took great care to keep shrouded in secrecy. Now Douglas found him concluding a phone call. Determined that he would not be accused of wasting valuable time with pleasantries, he said, ‘I hear that you’re on your way to examine a crime scene.’

‘This matter falls within our jurisdiction, yes.’ Boerner must have realised that Douglas would come and ask about it.

‘I’ll take your word on that. But perhaps I might accompany you?’

‘By all means – if you think it will help satisfy our police colleagues that this is an SD investigation,’ said Boerner. Had he not been so distracted, he might well have thought more carefully about his tone.

‘It may help satisfy me, Boerner. That’s the important thing.’ Douglas was always sure to quash any suggestion that his loyalties lay with the British police.

Boerner realised his misstep, and said promptly, ‘I will have them phone you when we are ready to leave.’

‘Thank you. Where are we going?’

To Douglas’s irritation, Boerner looked at him as though it hardly mattered. He glanced down at his scribbled notes. ‘Clerkenwell. A young woman, found hanged.’

 

Clerkenwell was as depressing as ever. The district had been struck many blows, and all within a few short years. One had heard Italian spoken on the streets here once, but after Mussolini joined the war there had been the anti-Italian riots, and then the internments. The Italian prisoners who had made their way back once liberated by the Germans had found their community scattered, and their one-time neighbours more hostile than ever. The war had not been kind to them either. Many of the jewellers and watchmakers who had once thrived here had seen their business dry up around nineteen-forty, and that was even before the bombs began to fall.

But for some of the craftsmen the invasion had come as a blessing. Now they plied their trade valuing looted jewellery and servicing stolen watches, their establishments flourishing as before. And yet for every shop growing wealthy from the Germans’ money there were three or four like the one that Boerner’s car stopped in front of: abandoned and semi-derelict.

The top floor of the building had been damaged by bombs, but Douglas guessed that the rooms on the ground floor would still have been usable. When he saw that the faded sign above the door read _Mayer_ , he understood. Perhaps Mr Mayer had carried on running his business, serving his dwindling number of customers at the front of the shop, and at night retiring to the back room to sleep amongst his tools. He might well have survived like this for months – until the SS came to take him away.

There were guards at the shop door, waiting inside in an uncharacteristic attempt to avoid creating suspicion. One of them ushered Boerner and Douglas in. He led them behind the counter and through to the back of the building, stopping in front of another door. ‘She’s in here, Obersturmführer,’ he said to Boerner.

The door led to a little room built onto the back of the house. The workshop must have been extended in more prosperous times. Now the room was gloomy; the door opening onto the yard behind had been left ajar and the boards pulled from the small window to let in enough light to see the body.

She was hanging in the centre of the room – face contorted, arms limp – suspended from a room looped over a beam, and tied at its other end around the leg of one of the workbenches. Boerner took one look at her and tried immediately to look elsewhere. But there was nothing else to be seen. The shelves and benches held only the scattered detritus of the watchmaker’s trade; the cupboards were thrown open and mostly empty. Any items of value must have been removed long ago.

‘May I…?’ Receiving a silent, hurried nod from Boerner, Douglas stepped around him and walked forwards into the room. Something crunched under his boot, and when he looked down he realised that it was a small spring. Nearby, a cog had rolled into the gap between floorboards, as though the departed watchmaker had been taken only yesterday, rather than years before.

Douglas looked at the window first. The boards had been nailed on tightly before the soldiers took a crowbar to them. Someone had not wanted anyone looking in. He turned his attention to one of the cupboards, reaching into it to rap his knuckles against the wood, and finding his suspicions confirmed. The cabinet had a false back, hastily replaced. By pushing carefully at one side he was able to get it open. Behind the partition, the back of the cupboard was as empty as the front.

Douglas stood up and turned to face into the room. The Resistance had been here, he was sure of it. That was why this was an SD matter. After the young woman’s death the room’s occupants had gathered their papers, their radio and their hoarded weapons and left before they could be discovered, disturbing the remnants of Mayer’s work and leaving them freshly scattered across the floor.

Boerner was still standing rather helplessly by the entrance. Even the SS man waiting beside him appeared bemused by his lack of action.

‘I suppose we’ll wait for the doctor.’ Douglas tried not to sound smug. The police doctor would have been here by now, because it was his job to be here. The SS doctor, no doubt, was being dragged from his usual work at the hospital in order to attend the scene, delaying the investigation and prolonging the dead woman’s indignity.

Boerner nodded, still casting about for somewhere to look. He noticed something on the ground and bent down. ‘What’s all this?’ He was holding another spring.

‘The remains of the workshop,’ said Douglas. ‘Mayer must have been a clockmaker.’ But his use of the man’s name passed Boerner by. Douglas’s dislike for his fellow officer rose up all at once, threatening to overwhelm him. He resented him for coming in here when he hadn’t a clue what he was doing, bringing soldiers to disturb the furniture and trample over the crime scene. He realised that he was looking forward to telling Huth that the young man had mishandled the affair, that it should have been left to the police.

But how pathetic, to approach Huth with such a tale to tell, either as his subordinate or his lover; especially if he stood here now and refused to assist. Quietly, Douglas said, ‘Would you mind if I examined the body while we wait.’

‘Of course not.’

Douglas stood on a chair to look at the woman’s face. Her skin was suffused with blood – and yet the eyes were closed. And the bruising at the neck was less than he had expected. The rope had cut in, but just barely.

What had she been standing on, wondered Douglas. It was not the chair that he was using now – it was too low. And the other chairs here were the same height, give or take. He felt more and more certain that his intuition was correct. The young woman had been strung up after she died.

Douglas half-stepped, half-toppled off the chair. It made it so much worse, somehow, so much more unpleasant to consider than simply suicide or murder. Was she hung up as a warning, or as a clumsy attempt to conceal a crime? And who was this woman, for her body to be left in a Resistance hideout?

Something occurred to Douglas. Placing a hand at the small of the woman’s back to keep her steady, he carefully undid the belt of her coat. He found what he was looking for. Hidden pockets, sewn into the coat’s lining, intended to carry leaflets or forged documents.

‘Boerner, look at this.’ Douglas tried to get him to come closer. But Boerner advanced a couple of steps and took only a cursory glance.

‘She was Resistance,’ said Douglas, stepping away from the body and standing beside Boerner. ‘And this was a Resistance meeting place. This isn’t a suicide – that rope didn’t kill her.’ He looked across at Boerner, trying to force a response. ‘Someone murdered her and left her here.’

‘I need some air.’ Turning abruptly, Boerner walked back past the bemused guard and through the shop, Douglas following behind.

They got into the car. Douglas feared that Boerner was going to have them drive away, but instead he said to the driver, ‘Get out.’ They sat in the back seat, not looking at each other.

‘Why would the Resistance kill one of their own?’ said Douglas. ‘And who found the body, left in a place that nobody is supposed to know about? What exactly is going on?’

‘For God’s sake, Archer, will you stop? It’s as bad as having Huth here!’ Boerner shut his eyes tightly, and opened them again only after a few seconds. He was clenching and unclenching his hands. Douglas had not realised just how badly seeing the body had shaken the young officer. Boerner might have worked for the SD for most of his adult life, and yet the vast majority of that time had been spent in an office, far from anything so unpleasant as murder. A strange irony, but there it was.

‘She was working for us, all right?’ said Boerner. ‘We had infiltrated that Resistance cell – we were trying to find out which other groups they communicated with. And Price, the owner of the shop next door, found the body – he was watching them for us too. He heard a lot of noise from the building as they cleared out, and when he decided it was safe to go and look, there was the girl, dead. Does that answer all of your questions?’ He stopped, as though the explanation had exhausted him.

Douglas remained silent. He usually found it an effective technique in these circumstances. Sure enough, Boerner began to return to his senses, and went paler than ever. In a hushed voice, he said, ‘Sturmbannführer, I apologise for my tone. It was never my intention to –’

‘It doesn’t matter. You’re upset.’

‘It’s just… I met with her only a few days ago,’ Boerner looked miserable. ‘She was under strict instructions to be careful – they all are.’

‘You’ve infiltrated other cells?’

‘Lots of them.’ Coming from Boerner it would usually have been a prideful boast, but not today.

So that was Huth’s aim – bringing down the Resistance from the inside. This was the project that he had assigned to Boerner. And he had kept it from Douglas. To find out was like being punched in the stomach: the loss of breath, the sudden realisation of one’s own vulnerability. But it faded quickly to a dull ache of acceptance. Of course Huth, who was both the most straightforward and the most evasive person that Douglas had ever met, had come up with such a scheme; and of course he had not told Douglas. He knew exactly what he would think of it.

‘Well, you’re already aware of the dead girl’s identity – that saves you some time.’ Douglas said it almost flippantly.

‘Alice Nesbitt.’ Boerner inhaled. ‘I need to catch the others before they talk to their friends, before they can begin to suspect anyone else. If they find more of our agents, if the whole thing comes crashing down, Huth will…’

Douglas found himself on the receiving end of a plaintive, hopeful look, a little like when Monty sat up and begged for scraps. He realised that he was being asked to assist in the investigation. Though Boerner had not wanted him here at first, he had come to realise that he needed someone with experience to help him.

But it was not going to be Douglas. It was not his job to speak with British collaborators, or to help maintain the spy network within the Resistance. And if the dead woman had been an agent of Boerner’s then she was not his concern either. It was not his responsibility to see that she was cut down and examined, to be present at the post mortem, or to bring her killers to justice.

‘You might ask Lehmann to help,’ he said to Boerner. ‘He used to be a detective too.’ Now that he knew he was free of the whole thing, it was easier to provide some words of reassurance.

‘It’s a good idea,’ said Boerner, evidently grateful. ‘I’ll ask him.’

‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think they’ll be looking for the rest of your informants. Her friends found out, I’d guess: they quarrelled, and killed her by mistake – or perhaps not. But all of this was just to try and make it look like she killed herself. And don’t worry about Huth. He’ll be reasonable as long as you handle the investigation properly.’

‘Yes. Yes, perhaps you’re right.’ Boerner was breathing more regularly now. He might have abased himself before Douglas, but he was no longer cringing at the prospect of a wrecked career. ‘The doctor will be here soon,’ he said. ‘We should go back inside.’

‘No, I’ll leave you to get on with it. Not my jurisdiction, after all.’

‘Take the car,’ said Boerner, attempting a final gesture of thanks.

Douglas turned away. ‘No need. I’ll go next door and use your friend Mr Price’s phone. It sounds like he’s used to dealing with our sort.’

He wondered if he might have a friendly chat with Price before he left. The man was clearly no stranger to informing on his neighbours; perhaps he would have some idea who had reported his long-departed rival Mr Mayer to the authorities. He could not be arrested for any crime, of course, but Douglas decided that he might enjoy listening to Price try to explain himself.


	31. Chapter 31

In the end, as Lehmann admitted with only a hint of disappointment, the investigation needed little in the way of real detective work. Alice Nesbitt had been seeing a young man, and on the day after the murder he had not arrived at the factory where he worked. Besides, so hasty and so inept had been their flight from the room behind the workshop, that he and his fellow Resistance members were easily tracked to a disused warehouse nearby.

They had put up no armed resistance when the SD officers came for them. They were exhausted, unprepared; and Nesbitt’s young man, who was also her murderer, was still helpless with grief. He had not meant to kill her, he told the policemen who interviewed him. He had confronted her only because he suspected that she had been seeing another man. He had forced the truth out of her, yes, and when he heard it he had reacted with anger and fear – but he had not intended for things to happen the way that they had. He had never intended to strangle her.

He was awaiting execution now, along with the others, Lehmann explained solemnly. The hour and day were not yet decided, but he did not need to tell them that it would be soon. It was customary for the sentence to be carried out quickly when Resistance members were caught keeping weapons.

‘I’d gladly see Harold Wright executed as soon as possible,’ said Boerner. A terror fighter _and_ a murderer.’

‘You can’t hang a man twice,’ said Lehmann.

‘More’s the pity.’ Only in his zeal to punish Wright did Boerner betray any trace of the emotion that he had shown when they found the girl’s body.

It was just the four of them in this impromptu debriefing, slotted into the end of a busy day. Douglas had not wanted to attend at all, and even Huth was disengaged. Douglas could see that his mind wandered each time Lehmann and Boerner started bickering or Boerner brought the discussion to a halt with one of his monologues. The Obersturmführer was anxious to emphasise that he had followed procedure when recruiting his informants.

Now Huth said, ‘Get a journalist – a tame one. Tell him that the police went to investigate a murder, and only then uncovered the Resistance cell. That should help quell any suspicion that there was an informant. Put Inspector Johnson’s name all over the investigation, have him write up some notes.’

‘Johnson will be accused of doing political work for the SS,’ said Douglas. ‘And he’s not one of the men who volunteered for that.’

‘Yes, I suppose he will. Very unfortunate for him.’ Johnson had been notable for his hostility towards Douglas when Huth took up his position at Scotland Yard, and in doing so had unwittingly made an enemy of Huth himself. Now Douglas could do nothing to prevent Huth from taking revenge on his behalf.

Judging that he had achieved his primary aim of self-preservation, Boerner sought to draw a line under the investigation. ‘Our other informants will be more careful,’ he said. ‘And the intelligence they’ve given us over the past weeks has been invaluable. Since the start of the year, the British Resistance haven’t killed a single German. Just a fellow Briton.’ He looked around the table with satisfaction.

‘Indeed.’ Lehmann nodded.

Douglas tried not to blame them for it. He knew that Boerner still dwelled on his loss of composure back in the workshop, fearful that news of this lapse in the toughness expected by the SS would get back to Huth and attract some lasting stigma. And Lehmann had been in this line of work far too long to weep over corpses. He probably just wanted to go home and phone his wife in Berlin.

‘Very good.’ Huth got to his feet, and the two men left. Douglas remained.

‘Britons killing Britons,’ he said to Huth. ‘Was that what you always intended?’

‘We’ll talk about this later.’ Huth was already back at his desk.

‘When?’

‘Come by this evening. Just now I need to make a phone call – assuming that’s all right with you, Archer?’ Huth’s smile was confident, relaxed. He either did not realise the strength of Douglas’s feeling, or did not care. ‘Come to the house about nine – I’ll be here for a few more hours.’

Douglas recognised Huth’s usual technique for getting people to leave his office. ‘To whom are you making this phone call, exactly?’ he said.

‘To Heydrich, if you must know. On a private matter.’

Douglas knew just from the bite in Huth’s voice that he was telling the truth. But he did not move.

‘Well, as long as you’re satisfied, that will be all.’

Douglas wanted to protest, to tell Huth that he would not stand for being shunted aside and dismissed. But he did stand for it; and he always had. He let it happen almost every day, and his commanding officer would never have any reason to treat him differently.

 

Douglas felt no calmer as the evening wore on. His silences during dinner became longer and longer, and at last Douggie and Fräulein Taube made quiet conversation amongst themselves. He had told them that he would be called away later, and they probably imagined that he was preoccupied with thoughts of the work awaiting him. No-one who had met Huth before ever doubted that he kept Douglas working all hours. Even if Douglas himself had told his family and colleagues the truth of the matter, they probably would not have believed him.

And in time, people would start to think favourably of Huth – that was the thought that obsessed Douglas, making him more agitated as the hours passed. Huth would appear to be fair and humane simply by virtue of not being Mühlbach; the Resistance would turn on itself and die out; and Londoners would grow to believe that the invaders were not so bad after all. They would become just like the Germans, willingly blinding themselves to the crimes of the regime. He thought of all the Englishmen hurrying to welcome Huth to the Prime Minister’s reception, and despised himself for having colluded in it.

The servant who let Douglas into Huth’s house took his coat and cap, and told him that the Brigadeführer had not long arrived back and was waiting for him in his study. Douglas expected as much. They were, after all, supposed to be working. He went upstairs, only to find Huth in the sitting room.

Huth had been staring contemplatively at the cigarette that he was smoking, but now he catapulted himself up from his seat. He did not come forward to greet Douglas and if he considered offering him a drink then the idea was only momentary. The expression on his subordinate’s face must have told him that this was not a social call.

‘Well?’ said Huth.

‘British policeman doing the work of the SD was bad enough,’ said Douglas. ‘And now you’ve got British journalists printing your lies. And Boerner’s project – getting the Resistance to rip itself to shreds, rather than target the Germans. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? No German lives lost – just British ones.’

Huth stepped carefully around a coffee table, moving forward into the centre of the room. He should not have done that, thought Douglas – he looked more vulnerable there, standing alone facing down his accuser. ‘Archer, the girl’s death was regrettable, but don’t make more of it than necessary. Nothing would please me more than if the Resistance would stop targeting _anyone_. But these people need saving from themselves.’

‘Oh, well, of course!’ Douglas gave a harsh laugh, feeling it catch in his throat, still hoarse from the cold outside. ‘When you put it like that, I don’t know why they’re not thanking you!’

It had been a long day for Huth, and he was beginning to fray at the edges. In a taut, calm voice, he said, ‘The Resistance are endangering themselves – and others – unnecessarily, in a fight that they cannot win. Do you dispute that – have you ever disputed that?’

Douglas remembered saying the same thing to Harry, and to Sylvia. It hurt to think of them both, especially at this present moment. But he understood now why they had reacted to his warnings with such scorn and disappointment. Without realising it, he had been advocating a country in which no-one resisted the Nazis. And now he knew that was not what he wanted.

‘You can’t expect me to condone this,’ he said to Huth. ‘Turning the British against each other, endangering people’s lives! Is Alice Nesbitt going to be the last informant murdered? Will all your police officers be safe when you attribute SD investigations to them?’

And Huth laughed. That was what Douglas found almost unbearable: that he laughed. ‘Spoken like a man who has never been involved in any such thing.’ He turned away to discard the stub of his cigarette, taking apparent pleasure in grinding it into the ashtray until no sparks remained. ‘As if you’ve never sent a British policeman after the Resistance for you. As if you’ve never used a woman as an informant.’

He fixed his cold eyes on Douglas, who realised at once that he was truly angry. Everything else was intended to mask it: his laughter, his slow dispatch of the cigarette, the scorn dripping from his voice. It was all to conceal the fact that Douglas had wounded him.

‘How is the delightful Fräulein Taube, by the by – enjoying London? I suppose it _was_ you who spread that rumour around the Yard that you’re sleeping with her? The better to hide our affair?’

Douglas did not answer. He could feel the blood rising to his face.

‘Well, good thinking – very plausible. After all, you’ve got form for that sort of thing.’

Douglas wanted to hit him. The desire arrived with such intensity that when it passed he was astonished to find that he was still standing near the door, not halfway across the room trying to punch the life out of Huth. And Huth was still there too, face perfectly intact and arranged in its familiar smirk, confident that his jibes had found their target. 

Why was he here, Douglas asked himself desperately – how did he justify this to himself? How could he work for him, eat with him, sleep with him, this man who could humiliate him with such casual cruelty? Why did he want Huth, still, when this was his immediate reaction to any challenge? Was it simply that all aspects of his life were too closely enmeshed with Huth’s for him to pull away? Sometimes it felt as though he had crawled into a thicket to evade his pursuers, and realised too late how full of thorns it was, how they caught at his clothing and dug into his flesh, drawing blood each time he tried in vain to escape.

‘God knows, Douglas, I understand why you’re unhappy.’ Huth said it quietly, but there was something in his voice that got Douglas’s attention at once. He knew that Huth had wrenched the words out from inside himself, that they came from some place deeper than his accusations and his jealous taunts.

‘I know that you don’t find it easy, being back at the Yard,’ said Huth, speaking at great speed. He was often like this: at pains to show Douglas that he understood him better even than Douglas understood himself. ‘You hear what the others say about you behind your back, and you let yourself be hurt by it. You gave Tom Sheenan his freedom, but when he passes you in the corridor he still can’t bring himself to look you in the eye; and your son is beginning to realise that neither Bob Sheenan nor any of his former classmates are ever going to come to his new house. You wish that you were still a detective, and that Harry Woods were still here. I know all that.’

Huth had been drawing closer to Douglas as he spoke: slowly, carefully, fixed of gaze, like an animal stalking its prey. Even now, he had lapsed into this familiar technique. He lingered a couple of paces away, as though fearing to reach out. ‘But it’s pointless,’ he said. ‘You can’t allow yourself regrets – they can’t put things back the way that they were.’

His hand came to rest on Douglas’s shoulder, the other on his arm: the lightest of touches, as if he expected to be pushed away. ‘Nothing lets you change what you’ve done, or take back the decisions you’ve made. You can’t ever go back in life – you have to keep moving forwards. That’s the only thing you can do.’

This was what it had come to, thought Douglas. Standing unwillingly in Huth’s arms, being held as though he were made of porcelain, and hearing what sounded suspiciously like warmed-over advice from the long dead Professor Springer. But he could not bring himself to resent Huth for it. He was doing the best that he could. He drew closer to Huth, and the other man held him more tightly.

‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Huth. ‘It’s the same for me. You know that I don’t…’

Douglas pulled back, looking into Huth’s face. ‘You don’t enjoy being at the Yard either? But you helped bring this about, Oskar. You were instrumental in establishing this system.’ Despite himself, he felt the ghost of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. ‘You don’t have any right to complain.’

They stood there for a while, the two of them together, each of them alone in his thoughts. When Douglas released his grasp, Huth said softly, ‘You’re going?’

‘No, I’ll stay. I’ll stay for a while.’


	32. Chapter 32

April 1943

Douglas was seated at the back of the hall, about as far from the stage as it was possible to be, but still he found himself narrowing his eyes at the speaker, trying to infer something, anything, from his stance or his expression. _Why are you in London, Axmann?_

There had been little ceremony surrounding the Reich Youth Leader’s visit, and even this visit to the Highgate school was informal, his speech a favour to the headmaster, nothing more. But why else would he be in London, thought Douglas, if not to lay the groundwork for some extension of the Nazi youth movement to the occupied territories? Now, perhaps, it had become more vital than ever to ensure a supply of soldiers in the years to come.

These days, Douglas suspected everything had to do with the possibility of a new war. The most commonplace things would set him ruminating darkly: the requests for information that passed across his desk; Huth’s moods and his silences; the chatter of soldiers in London’s restaurants. He no longer trusted his intuition to tell him what was out of the ordinary. Suspicion was the disease of the SD, and Douglas knew that by now it had infected him as badly as it had any of his colleagues.

But thank goodness he could wait here beside the exit with the security detail, rather than sitting near the stage where people could see him. He would have had to look as though he was listening; he might even have had to really listen, and what was the point in that? He was not going to pick up any clues from Axmann’s speech. It was the usual nonsense, the sort of thing he must have dished out to tens of thousands of unfortunate children across Germany. 

Still, even the speech eventually came to an end, as all things must. Once the applause had stopped and it was politic to be seen doing so, Douglas glanced at his watch. No possibility now of finding Douggie – he must escort Axmann to the West End in time for his lunch meeting. Besides, the boys were already filing out of the hall.

They spoke very little in the car. Axmann must have been cognisant of the mark of respect that was intended by the chief of police sending his own personal assistant to escort him; but he was also aware that the contents of any friendly small talk with the SD were unlikely to remain private. When Douglas expressed his hope that he had enjoyed his visit to London, Axmann said vaguely, ‘A charming city,’ and craned to look out of the window, uncaring of what exactly he expected to see.

 _It was until you bastards came along,_ Douglas wanted to tell him.

Upon arriving at their destination, Axmann got out of the car with an expression of relief that Douglas would have found hurtful had he not become so inured to it. Now it just made him want to laugh. 

It was nearly one thirty when he got back to Scotland Yard. He had expected that a sizeable contingent of the building’s occupants would be out at lunch, but he found the lobby unusually busy for this time of day. Particularly out of the ordinary was a small group of British police, some uniformed and some plain clothes, talking together in low voices. It could not be about work, thought Douglas – they were too animated for that. And they would normally have avoided gathering here, in case they should draw the ire of some SS officer passing by and be ordered to disperse.

Douglas knew that he himself ought to ask them to move along, but he could not bring himself to believe that it was worthwhile. He was walking past them towards the stairs when they noticed him.

‘Sturmbannführer!’ Sergeant Harris darted towards Douglas across the polished floor of the lobby, and stopped in front of him, hand raised in a mockery of the German salute. One did not even need to look at his face or hear the sniggers of his fellow officers to know that he intended disrespect – no Englishman ever saluted unless he was forced to.

They did this sort of thing to Douglas because they knew, that out of all the SS in the building, he alone would allow them to get away with it. Douglas briefly imagined the looks on their faces if, just once, he surprised them by losing his temper and making it a disciplinary matter. Instead he said, ‘Stop that, Harris, and tell me what it is that you want.’

‘Sturmbannführer, _ich melde –’_ Not to be deterred, the man continued with his playacting, until he saw the expression on Douglas’s face, and reverted quickly to English. ‘News from Berlin,’ he said.

‘Really? And this news came in to you, did it, Harris? I find that unlikely.’

‘They’re saying one of yours has been killed, sir.’ Harris watched Douglas for a reaction.

 _What are you talking about?_ Douglas wanted to say. And then, almost immediately, _whoever it is you mean, they’re not one of mine._ But he managed to deny his former countrymen the satisfaction of any reaction at all. He said, ‘Very interesting. Whatever the truth of that, perhaps you might go about your business now. I’m sure that all of you have things to do.’

He did not wait to see whether they obeyed his order, and once he was out of their sight he climbed the stairs two at a time. If the rumour was true, he thought, and if it had got out to the native police, then he could only imagine that somewhere a secretary or telephonist was about to lose their job, if not worse.

In the corridor leading to Huth’s office he met Lehmann. He was in charge of liaison with Berlin, and it was clear from his harried expression that something was amiss. But Douglas knew that he could not possibly be responsible for the news spreading around the building. For one thing, Lehmann was far too discreet; and for another, he had just been allowed to leave Huth’s office unharmed.

‘What’s happened?’ said Douglas.

The corridor was deserted, but still Lehmann took him to one side, looking around to make sure that no-one was present to overhear. How the police officers downstairs would laugh to see them, thought Douglas – whispering together like schoolchildren.

‘Heydrich,’ said Lehmann. ‘Heydrich is dead.’

‘What? How?’ It hardly seemed possible. Heydrich was not yet forty.

Lehmann’s eyes were blank, focussing already on the potential implications. ‘An accident… I don’t know, the call came through directly to Huth.’

‘Well, the news is out downstairs.’

‘That’s Berlin’s fault, then,’ said Lehmann, a brief flare of annoyance breaking through his consternation. ‘Someone there has been indiscreet.’ He frowned again, and almost went to run a hand through his hair, before realising that this would only add to his problems and checking the impulse.

Douglas understood his alarm. He doubted that Lehmann had liked Heydrich – few people did – but it put the SD in jeopardy. He could not begin to guess who Himmler would choose as a replacement, and for once was glad of his ignorance.

‘He’ll probably want to speak to you,’ said Lehmann, glancing in the direction of Huth’s office.

‘Taken it badly, has he?’ said Douglas, with a faint smile.

‘Devastated, of course.’ Lehmann’s voice was utterly deadpan – always the clearest signifier that he was making a joke. They both knew that Huth would have wasted no more than two minutes on the memory of his fallen comrade before he began to consider much more important matters: the implications for his own career.

And yet, once Douglas had entered the office and shut the door behind him, he had to stop himself from going immediately to Huth. He had rarely seen his commanding officer look so bleak. Huth was leaning back in his seat, gazing into the far corner of the room. There was something about his posture of a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Douglas did not understand it. Heydrich had no more than half-trusted Huth – to the extent that he trusted anyone at all – and there had been little warmth between the two men personally or socially. There was no obvious reason for Huth to be sitting here looking as though a relative had died.

‘What happened?’ said Douglas. Huth had barely acknowledged his presence, and there seemed no need for the usual protocol between a subordinate and his senior officer.

Huth looked at Douglas. ‘A skiing accident.’ He frowned as he said it, as though processing the information afresh.

‘And he’s definitely dead – it hasn’t been misreported?’

‘Oh, he’s dead.’

Douglas was gripped simultaneously by an almost irresistible desire to laugh and a terror that he would actually do so. It was such an idiotic way for so powerful and feared a man to die. ‘That’s bad luck,’ he said. He did not trust himself to offer any condolences more effusive than that.

‘He was always reckless,’ said Huth – with a profound lack of self-insight. ‘He was probably showing off, as usual. It’s late in the season – the snow was scant, perhaps, and something went wrong.’

‘What happens now?’ said Douglas.

‘After the funeral? The Reichsführer will appoint someone else. This time he might pick someone who won’t threaten to outshine him.’ To Douglas’s confusion, Huth said it as though Himmler’s choice was of little importance. But then, just as casually, Huth added, ‘Besides, he won’t have much time to think about it. Now there will certainly be war in the near future.’

Uninvited, Douglas drew back the chair in front of Huth’s desk and sat down. Just for a couple of seconds, he remembered all those times that he had sat in this same spot during briefings with Kellerman. Why, he wondered, did that suddenly strike him as a happy memory, rooted as it was in a time of fear and confusion? He realised that Huth’s words alone had done it, filling the room with a dread that was far more immediate than recollections even of Kellerman’s worst excesses.

‘Heydrich was opposed to the new war?’ said Douglas. It was the only logical thing to infer – and it explained Huth’s collapse, his attitude of defeat.

‘I had persuaded him that we should wait.’ Huth paused, and seemed to consider. Then, with something of the recklessness that he had scorned in Heydrich, he said, ‘We were assembling evidence that the Russians were better prepared than they wanted us to believe. We hoped the Führer would see that an attack in the next few months would be pointless, when soon we will have the chance to bring the Russians to their knees without any fighting at all.’

‘Was the evidence real?’ said Douglas. Huth gave an irritable half-shrug that could have been an affirmative, a negative, or – more likely – an indication that he had never cared either way.

‘I suppose Heydrich was eager to see if the bomb would work.’ Heydrich had always struck Douglas as someone who would enjoy the prospect of several thousand lives wiped out at a stroke, if only out of an almost academic interest, purely to see if it were possible. It certainly would not have mattered to him if they were civilians. And the efficiency of the bomb might have appealed to him, compared with the messiness of another war. Heydrich had liked efficiency.

‘It need never have come to that.’ Huth had raised himself slightly in his chair, but the wistful note in his voice had grown stronger, as though the weapons project had assumed the status of some long-lost love. ‘The Russians would have been running scared even at the thought of the atomic bomb, without us having to use it.’ He frowned, shot a glance at Douglas from under his lowered brows. ‘The Reichsführer became sick of hearing that, you know. He was delighted when he found that he could send me here and treat it as an accolade, when really he no longer wanted to listen to me trying to talk sense into him. But now… With Heydrich gone, no-one will want to be within a hundred miles of a plot to stop the war. Schellenberg will be destroying the evidence already.’

Huth paused. Douglas waited, certain that he was about to propose a trip to Berlin to offer Schellenberg a helping hand, whether it be in destroying evidence or silencing any bystanders in their nascent conspiracy. Then Huth said, ‘We’ll go to Bringle Sands. Last time you visited they were making good progress, yes? We might be close to having something to show for it.’

But it was over. Huth knew that for himself, and Douglas knew it just by looking at Huth. No last-ditch attempt to drive the work forward would forestall the war now. Huth was only proposing the trip because he could not bear to sit still and let events overtake him.

Douglas swallowed. Somehow, he had always expected that there would be more time before it came to this moment, the point at which war was all but certain. He watched Huth, animated once again, ready to be carried forward precipitately by his newfound sense of purpose. ‘Well, we’re not going today,’ he said. ‘Or tomorrow.’ Huth looked at him with surprise.

‘They are used to monthly visits, and telephone calls every week,’ said Douglas. ‘If we turn up without any notice at all it will create worry, confusion. You know what scientists are like – if we try to rush them too much, they will dig in their heels. And we can’t give the impression that we are panicking.’

Huth’s expression was sceptical. ‘At least read the latest reports before we go,’ said Douglas. Mercifully, when he looked across the room he located them at once, on the table where he had placed them last week. He brought them to Huth’s desk. ‘Thursday. I’ll cancel your other meetings and arrange it for Thursday.’

‘No later,’ said Huth. ‘Another few days and we’ll start getting tied up in preparations for our late overseer’s funeral.’

‘Thursday it is,’ said Douglas. He tried to sound calm, reassuring – although the effort of keeping up the façade had long since started to make him feel nauseous.

As Douglas left the room, he saw that Huth, whether from genuine interest or simply a childlike compulsion to read whatever was put in front of him, had already opened the report and begun to look at the first page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I’m aware, there’s no suggestion that in real life Heydrich recognised the folly of a land war against Russia – the only thing one can say with much certainty is that he was both cleverer and less slavishly loyal to Hitler than Himmler was. But I do like the idea of him dying a karmic premature death brought about partially by his own carelessness in all possible alternate universes (all the ones where he joins the SS, anyway).


	33. Chapter 33

Douggie seemed perturbed when he learned that his father would be going away. Douglas had arrived home in time to help him with his homework, for once, but while they were poring over it at the dining table their talk moved swiftly to Douglas’s trip. He knew that Douggie had been waiting to ask him about it since he had mentioned it at dinner.

‘It’s only for one night,’ said Douglas. ‘I’ll be back by the weekend. And I’m not going far.’ Inside, he was writhing with guilt, but he kept his voice cheerful

‘Where?’ said Douggie. Six months ago, he would have known better than to ask, and even up until recently he would have said it apologetically, expecting to be rebuffed. But he did not sound apologetic now.

‘Devon,’ said Douglas, startled into speaking the truth. He immediately regretted it, but then reflected that it might not matter much anyway. How long would Bringle Sands continue to exist now that the Reich had much more pressing matters to attend to?

The expression on Douggie’s face was one that Douglas recognised but could not place at first. It occurred to him that it was very like the look Huth wore when he suspected that he was being lied to. 

‘Why do you have to go now?’ said Douggie.

‘You know I can’t tell you that… Look, just don’t worry, Douggie, all right? You won’t even notice that I’m gone.’

Douggie looked at him blankly for a second, and then returned to his mathematics book, as though even that uninspiring prospect offered more satisfaction than further conversation with his father.

The boy was plainly upset – and not just about his father going away. He had not been right since earlier in the week. First there had been that asinine speech by Axmann at the school, and then the next day the news about Heydrich had broken. Douggie had probably been party to all sorts of talk about the death; there was no doubt that his classmates heard things at home, understood them incompletely and then brought them to school to spread around. Perhaps he was even astute enough to worry what it meant for his own father’s position.

There was something else as well. When he had repaired home on the day of Axmann’s speech – leaving Huth still in the office diligently absorbing the latest information from Bringle Sands – Douglas had noticed how his son looked at him when he entered the house. It was as though he were seeing him for the first time. Douglas had thought at once of the soldiers at the school that morning, the protection squad for Axmann. Douggie was used to seeing such squads at checkpoints, patrolling the streets, making arrests – but always terrorising the civilian population in some capacity. And he had not liked seeing his father in charge of such men.

Douglas shook his head. What help was there for that, now? None of it could be undone. He could only try his best to reassure his son. ‘Douggie?’ he said. The boy put down his pencil and looked at him enquiringly.

‘Listen,’ said Douglas. ‘It will be all right. Whatever happens, things will be all right. You must remember that.’

How could he speak words that rang so hollow, even to him – how could he tell his son not to worry when that was all that he himself did, constantly? But Douggie smiled.

‘I know, Dad,’ he said. ‘I know they will.’

His son was growing up, and yet he was still young enough to trust his father implicitly, to believe that something was true simply because he said so. Douglas watched Douggie return to his book, conscientiously working through the exercises, and tried to remember if anything else in the past year had made him feel quite as wretched as his son’s innocent trust did now.

 

Today, more than ever before, Bringle Sands was like a place forgotten by the world. It was not just the unprepossessing grey sea and even greyer sky as they approached, nor the biting wind that made itself evident the moment that they got out of the car. It was Douglas’s own fears that made the rocky coastline and the hunched laboratory buildings even more bleak a scene than usual. He knew that Huth must feel the same, however he pretended not to.

But the officers who met them did not know this, and they treated Huth’s visit with the ceremony that such an occasion demanded. They were eager to remind him again of all the improvements that had been made since the SS had taken over from the Army. Despite their bombast, Douglas felt rather sorry for them. Before long, he was certain, they might find themselves moved from this relatively comfortable position to somewhere far less hospitable.

The scientists, for their part, reacted to Huth’s appearance in the way that they usually did, a curious mixture of fear, deference and defiance. It had always been plain that although they were just about able to stomach working for the German Army, their qualms about the SS were harder for them to overcome. However polite Huth’s tone, however intelligent his questions, they never became any more relaxed in his presence. Today he took no pleasure at all in frightening the men, and his patience was, accordingly, in short supply. At last, after a report on the latest findings had ended in a particularly fruitless ten minutes of questioning, he said bluntly, ‘When? When will you be able to move onto the next stage?’

The men on the other side of the table recoiled slightly, then gathered themselves, as though regrouping. It was cold in this large conference room, and it left the impression that the men had moved closer together for warmth, as well as for solidarity.

‘It’s impossible to say,’ offered Dr Chapman eventually. Beside him, Dr Walton let his gaze drift over Huth and over Neumann, the senior office at the research establishment, and alight on Douglas, as if he might offer some help. He looked quickly away again.

‘Dr Chapman, don’t use words like “impossible”. It’s not impossible at all, is it? Why don’t you pick a point between tomorrow and one year’s time? Even better, between tomorrow and three months. In fact, why not make it one month?’ Huth was staring down at the table, toying with the pencil that lay on top of his notes. He did not need to look at the scientists to know that he was commanding their full attention.

The elderly Professor Frick had been silent for most of the meeting. Now he leaned around Dr Walton to look at Huth. ‘Brigadeführer, we’re all quite aware that in most of your activities you expect to achieve results through force of will alone. But it will not work here.’

Of all the men at the establishment, Frick was the only one who dared treat Huth as though he found him faintly amusing. As an old man he was, of course, quite entitled to look indulgently on the energy and impatience of youth, and quash it when necessary; but he was foolish to assume that any SS officer would hesitate to punish him simply because of his advanced age.

Still, Huth had never reacted to the professor’s little remarks. Perhaps the man reminded him of Springer, and sentimentality alone held him back. To Douglas’s relief, he was not about to react for the first time today. He stood up from the table. ‘Professor, believe me, if I’ve learnt nothing else over the past months, I’ve certainly learned that. I’ve detained you long enough. Please, get back to your work.’

After the meeting Douglas and Huth sat in the mess hall, neither of them eating much. Douglas’s pretence of thinking the visit worthwhile did not stretch to having any sort of appetite, and over the past two days Huth had shown little enthusiasm for anything other than finding a way out of his current predicament.

Now he said, ‘They were reticent, Dr Chapman and his team. But you know what that means? That means that they are close. They don’t want to promise too much, in case they cannot deliver. And perhaps they never wanted it to get as far as a test. But it could, very soon.’

‘Do you think so?’ said Douglas.

Huth looked across the table at him. ‘We could have something in a few weeks.’ His voice had the ring of someone trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

‘Who are you going to tell that to?’ said Douglas. ‘The Reichsführer? The Führer?’ They both knew that the question was rhetorical. Himmler was no longer interested in listening, and with Heydrich gone, Huth had lost the last person who might provide a direct channel to Hitler.

‘I’m sorry, Archer, how rude of me.’ It was Huth’s usual sarcastic drawl, and for once it was almost comforting to hear it. ‘Why don’t I just share my plans with you here, in the middle of the mess hall?’

‘I suppose I can wait, sir, if you insist,’ said Douglas. Huth snorted, not prepared to lower himself to show amusement when there were others present.

Perhaps he did have a plan, thought Douglas. Once they were in private Huth might surprise him by sharing some audacious stratagem. It had happened before. And yet for the first time he truly believed that his commanding officer was out of ideas.

 

The corridor was already darkened when Douglas left his rooms that night. He and Huth were the only people staying here in the officers’ suites in the accommodation block. He wondered if they would be the last high-ranking visitors who would ever come to Bringle Sands. At the present moment, it seemed almost a certainty.

Huth took a long time to respond to the knock on his door. At length, Douglas heard him approach the other side. ‘Who is this?’ His tone was curt, bordering on irritable.

‘It’s Archer.’

Huth opened the door, and Douglas barely had time to look at him before he was hustled inside. When the door had shut behind him, he saw that Huth was wearing only a towel. His chest was bare, and his hair damp, pushed back off his face. He must just have come from bathing.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ said Huth. From something in his eyes, Douglas suspected that his next sentence might begin with, _But since you are…_

Hurriedly, he held aloft the briefcase in his hand. ‘I’m here about work.’

Huth blinked. Without missing a beat, he stepped back in the direction of the bedroom. ‘Well then, you won’t mind if I get dressed?’

‘Go ahead,’ said Douglas, although in his impatience he did mind, very much. How dressed did Huth plan to get – tunic, medals, boots? He imagined him standing there in the bedroom, internally debating the relative merits of discussing work in full uniform or just part of it. But Huth was not gone for long, and he returned to the sitting room wearing only his shirt and breeches.

‘Well?’ said Huth, sitting down in the armchair opposite Douglas. The briefcase was on the coffee table between them. Douglas opened it.

Huth looked at the papers inside, the great stack of them with their cramped rows of calculations. His eyes moved over the containers holding the rolls of film. At last, with the same care that he had used when trying to reassemble the ashes recovered from Spode’s grate more than a year ago, he picked up the top sheet, and scanned what was written there, before dropping it back onto the pile.

‘Dr Walton has been copying them out for me,’ said Douglas. ‘This is the work of more than six weeks. Did you notice how tired he looked?’ He indicated the film, seeing as he did so how his hand shook. ‘He took all the photographs, too. I met with him earlier so that he could hand it over to me. This isn’t all of it, either.’

Huth smiled. It was as if he did it to show that he still could, even faced with this. ‘And no doubt you’ve brought this to me to show that Walton is corruptible, and should be removed from the project.’

‘Far from it,’ said Douglas. He found that he wanted to play along with the joke, even if it was Huth’s last, even if it was the precursor to arrest and execution. ‘Dr Walton strongly objected to my order. He knew that it was against protocol. But I told him that harm would come to his family if he didn’t comply.’ How strangely easy it was to admit to that. But then, it still did not feel to Douglas as though he had been the one making the threats. He was someone else when he did these things – a person that he could shut away and forget about, and perhaps one day soon discard entirely.

Huth said, ‘I can only imagine, then, that somebody has been able to put you in touch with the Americans. Sir Robert Benson, by any chance? Offering you a way out of London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bastard,’ said Huth, simply. He had interlaced his hands and was resting his elbows on his knees, hunched forward, still looking at the briefcase and its contents.

‘I loathe the man. But he’s one of the few conduits to the United States left in Britain.’

Huth did not appear to have been listening. Gesturing to the briefcase, he said, ‘And I suppose that this is the only reason that you ever –’

‘No,’ said Douglas emphatically. ‘That never had anything to do with it. That’s the last thing that you should think. Between us – that was something else entirely.’ He looked at Huth. Had his words brought him any comfort, even the merest salve to his wounded pride? It was impossible to tell: Huth was still and silent.

And yet Douglas was anxious to carry on talking, lest Huth should come to a decision and in doing so decide in haste. ‘As we’ve got to know each other,’ he said, ‘I’ve thought better of your motives.’ He spoke cautiously at first, growing in confidence when Huth did not immediately silence him. ‘I’ve come to realise that perhaps you didn’t just have self-interest at heart. Perhaps you thought that by pursuing the atomic programme you could put an end to further bloodshed, ensure peace. The wrong peace, by my standards, but still peace.’

Huth smiled again. Steadily, each time, the expression was becoming more mirthless than the last. ‘Praise, from Douglas Archer! Faint praise, but still praise.’

‘But Oskar, you know that you’ve failed.’

Now Huth looked at Douglas, and his expression of hurt was almost impossible to bear. For an instant, he was a child again, being told the news that out of everything in the world he could not stand to hear. The things that this man had done, thought Douglas desperately, the suffering that he had caused, and all to protect himself from the shame of ever hearing those words.

‘It’s too late,’ said Douglas. ‘We both know that. It’s taken too long. The Army will launch their attack on Russia; hundreds of thousands of lives will be lost. Himmler will give the war his full support – and resources to your project will be cut off. The only way that this work will live on is in other hands. And who knows, perhaps it’s the best chance of eventually halting the war that your people are determined to drag us into.’

Huth rested his forehead on his hands, gazing down at the floor. He was silent for some time, but Douglas did not dare disturb his thoughts.

‘You can’t expect me to allow this,’ said Huth.

Douglas stared at him. He saw that Huth had returned to himself, if only a little – he leant back in his chair, raised one foot to rest it on the opposite knee.

‘You think it’s because I can’t bear to lose you?’ said Huth. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. No, I don’t want you to leave – but I was years without you, before now, and I managed well enough. And after your departure, I’d survive. Except I wouldn’t, of course, because Himmler would have some rather pressing questions about why the foreigner I’d brought into my confidence, into the SD, and all the way up to the Reichsführer’s office, right in the centre of government, turned out to be a traitor.’

Douglas followed Huth’s gaze towards the window, even though he knew that there was nothing to see there apart from the blackout blind, obscuring the searchlights and the view of the laboratory buildings. But he sensed Huth’s tension well enough. It was as though he expected to see Himmler himself on the horizon with a detachment of infantry.

‘They’d execute me,’ said Huth, as pleasantly and calmly as though he had said, _They’d ask me the time._ ‘It wouldn’t be quick or humane, either. And perhaps you believe that’s not so unjust – perhaps you think that after Kellerman and Mühlbach I’ve no right to expect a long and peaceful tenure in my position here. Perhaps you’d even be right to think so. But they’d execute my parents too, of course. And anyone unlucky enough to be connected to me professionally would be tortured to find out if they were in on the plot. So do you see, Archer, why I can’t let my personal assistant go waltzing off to America with these documents?’

‘I have a plan.’ It sounded so pathetic, against Huth’s well-reasoned arguments, but Douglas said it anyway. ‘No-one will even realise that the research has been copied, until it’s too late. And we’ll be able to fix it so that you’re exonerated completely – so that no-one suspects you ever knew anything about it.’

Huth looked at him with the expression of someone being shown a crayon drawing by a child. ‘A _plan?_ Very good, Archer – but forgive my lack of confidence. I’ve been party to other schemes of yours, and I’ve seen how well they have worked.’

‘I surprised you with the contents of this briefcase, didn’t I?’ Douglas’s throat was dry, and he swallowed before continuing. ‘And I think that when I leave this room, I’ll still have this briefcase with me. I think that you’re going to agree to my plan.’

‘You think so, do you?’ said Huth. The look in his eyes reminded Douglas all too forcefully of his usual, often capricious, response to being challenged.

But he smiled in the face of the tacit threat. ‘Are you going to remain loyal to Hitler and Himmler, when they’ve nothing more to offer you in return? When instead you could prove in the end that you were right all along?’ He paused. ‘And you know what else? You know that you have nothing to gain from keeping me here, because before long I won’t be able to go on.’

Huth did not reply. His eyes met Douglas’s, and they were empty – no affection or anger, no malice or cunning. And yet he must have seen something in Douglas’s eyes, for his gaze wavered, and he looked away.

Huth sighed deeply, expelling the breath that he seemed to have been holding throughout the entire conversation. With his face turned to one side, he reached out and nudged the papers back into the briefcase. He closed it, snapping down the catches. Then he took back his hand and seemed to retreat, shrinking into himself.

Douglas did not reach out to take the briefcase. There would be time enough for that. He said softly, ‘You must have realised that I couldn’t do it; that I wasn’t capable of the things that you do. You see through everyone. You must always have known.’

Something in Huth relaxed. His smile was genuine this time, fighting its way to his face through his desolation. ‘Perhaps I did. But I wouldn’t be the first man to delude himself.’

‘We’re both guilty of that. I convinced myself that I would be able to work for you in Germany no matter what I found there. And then I told myself that I could stand to be back here in London, working on your side – for our sake, and for my son’s. I was wrong on both counts.’

‘Four months,’ said Huth. ‘Less time than I had hoped.’

‘For me too.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is probably a bit too kind to Huth – the novel and TV series don’t indicate that there is meant to be any humanitarian motive behind his involvement in the nuclear bomb project (although in one episode I think he blurts out some stuff about how brilliant it’s going to be when Germany dominates the world, as though Archer is going to see his point and be delighted by the prospect). My personal interpretation would probably be that he only cares about his own career, and doesn’t realise the consequences of a nuclear bomb being used on civilians, or hasn’t thought that far ahead, or (at worst) doesn’t care. But it seems possible that even a Nazi might have some moral qualms about dropping a nuclear bomb, so it seemed worth addressing this if it is being put forward as the sane alternative to a conventional war.


	34. Chapter 34

Following the afternoon briefing, as was customary, Douglas accompanied Huth to his office. The others were left to trail out of the room after them, returning from this routine interruption back to their desks.

Huth had a telephone call to make, and Douglas sat down to collate the meeting notes. He forced himself to concentrate on the task, to do it exactly as he usually would. When his colleagues looked at them, they must all believe that here was the work of a man who had fully expected to come into the office as normal the next day.

Huth finished his call and returned to the reports on his desk. He had said nothing to Douglas since they left the meeting but, given the circumstances, it would have been unfair to resent him for being taciturn. In the past days he had seemed to retreat from Douglas piece by piece, partly through his own volition, and partly because Douglas himself had stepped beyond his reach.

Two evenings ago, Douglas had said, ‘We won’t do this again.’

He had got up from the bed without looking at Huth and kept his back turned to him, determined not to weaken. He walked away across the room. ‘I’m going home.’

Huth laughed softly. ‘If you say so.’

Douglas looked around at him. ‘Yes, I do. You might not like that, but sometimes it’s not possible to achieve anything without someone getting hurt. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you, of all people.’

He turned away again and began to get dressed, focusing his attention on each minute detail, even as the silence in the room thickened and became ever more suffocating. He pulled on his boots, reached for his tunic and began to button it up; and the thought returned again and again, inescapable: _Not for much longer._

‘You know, that uniform never suited you.’

Douglas glanced towards the bed. Huth was sitting up against the pillows, watching him.

‘Is that right?’ said Douglas.

‘I never wanted to say anything. But it’s true.’ Already, Huth had moved towards the centre of the bed, deliberately filling the space that Douglas had created. _I’ve lost,_ said his careless posture, his too-calm smile. _And you’ve won. But it doesn’t feel that way, does it?_

‘Goodnight, Oskar.’

As the front door shut behind Douglas, depositing him out into a night scented with spring, he knew that he would not return to the house. And he would never call Huth by his name again.

He looked back towards the villa as he reached the edge of the square. In the whole hulking outline of the building, there remained only that one lit window.

And now, three days later, the afternoon was drawing on. The thought returned again, darker and more portentous. _Not much longer._ Once he was back in his office, all that would remain was to wait for the telephone to ring, and then to take his briefcase and go wherever they instructed him to.

He approached Huth’s desk. ‘Brigadeführer, it’s getting late. Unless there is anything else that you require, I will leave you now.’ The words were no different from usual, and yet today they meant something else entirely.

Huth said, ‘Sit down, Archer.’ And yet, when Douglas sat, he did not seem to know what to say.

As if it was likely to matter to Huth, Douglas said, ‘My notes and files are all in order.’

‘All in order at home as well?’ Huth stared hard at Douglas. ‘You mean to say that you haven’t told your son?’

‘It’s too dangerous. For him, and for me.’

Huth clasped his hands loosely on the desk in front of him, staring at them. ‘Are you certain? He may never forgive you. You realise that?’ 

‘You’d know about resenting your father, wouldn’t you?’ Douglas forced a smile.

‘I would,’ said Huth. He did not smile back.

‘Well, it’s too late now.’

Douglas would not be going home. He thought of Douggie and Fräulein Taube sitting there as they did every evening, she with her book, he with his homework, the dog on the hearth rug between them. He was overcome with stinging nostalgia when he pictured the scene, not yet twenty-four hours in his past, but already irretrievable.

At least they would not miss him tonight, for they would assume that he was working. It would be Lehmann, perhaps – dependable, tactful Lehmann – who would first notice his absence tomorrow morning. After a few hours with no sign of Douglas, he would come and ask Huth.

‘Where has he got to, damn him?’ Huth would say; and then there would be the phone calls; the questions, increasingly fractious as the day wore on; the ever more frantic attempts to locate him. It felt painfully real to Douglas, in stark contrast to whatever awaited him tomorrow. Where would he be in a day’s time? He could only guess. Fearing betrayal, his shadowy new associates had not told him.

Huth sat back. ‘Well, I wish you luck.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You know what I think of your scheme, Archer.’ Huth shrugged, splaying his hands across the desk. ‘I’m poised to identify you when your corpse turns up somewhere. I’ll prepare something nice to say at your funeral.’

Douglas smiled wryly. ‘It’s clear that you have tremendous faith in my plan.’

Huth looked him in the eye. ‘These are dangerous men. Do you trust them, these people you’re throwing your lot in with?’

‘No more than you trust your tame Resistance,’ said Douglas. ‘In fact, I think I’ve forgotten how to trust anyone. But it doesn’t change things.’

And there was nothing more to be said on the matter. Huth got to his feet, and Douglas followed suit. For one excruciating moment, he thought that Huth was about to shake his hand, that this would be how they ended their last meeting.

Huth looked him up and down. ‘There was always something that I liked about you, Archer.’ His mouth twitched, a momentary smirk. ‘No, I don’t mean like that. I could never put a name to it – I don’t think it’s a quality that I possess myself. I wondered if they would have drummed it out of you when you were sent off for training and they returned you to me as an SS officer, but I was naïve to expect that. Then I watched you try to eradicate it in yourself. I saw that you couldn’t do it.’ Huth walked slowly around his desk, propped himself against the front of the polished surface, studied Douglas again. ‘And I suppose that I wish you could have done, in the end. Because that same quality is what’s taking you away for good.’

Douglas opened his mouth, but Huth held up a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t apologise. I didn’t ask you to say sorry for what you are, did I?’ He smiled. ‘Sometimes it’s as though I’ve taught you nothing.’

Huth lowered his hand, turning the knuckles towards him to examine them. ‘Only one thing made it all possible,’ said Douglas.

Huth looked back at him. Douglas said, ‘The only reason I could stand to keep working for you – that, and everything else. It’s because I’ve always believed that you’re a better man than you pretend to be.’ He raised his eyes to meet Huth’s. ‘Now I’m entrusting my son to your care. Please, prove that I wasn’t mistaken.’

Huth stood up straighter, almost at a position of attention, as though in some subconscious way acknowledging an order. He said solemnly, ‘I’ll look after your son, Archer. You have my word.’

‘Thank you, Brigadeführer. Then I’ll let you get back to work.’

‘For God’s sake, Douglas!’ Huth’s words were barely more than a strangled whisper. He pulled Douglas into an embrace strong enough to hurt him, a kiss that felt like an attempt to compensate for every opportunity missed over the past months. For a moment, Douglas forgot about his imminent departure, the dangers of the next day, the colleagues who might even now come and catch them here. He forgot about anything at all.

Then Huth stepped back, and everything that had existed between them was over, instantly, without him needing to say a word. He retreated behind his desk, straightened his tunic. ‘Goodbye, Archer.’

‘Goodbye, sir.’ And Douglas left the office.


	35. Chapter 35

The clock on the mantelpiece made it ten forty-five. Seated in an armchair across the room, Oskar stared at it with mistrust. It was slow; on top of which it was outstandingly ugly – an overwrought gilt affair. Surely it was never Archer’s? It must already have been in situ when he moved in.

Oskar hated being here, in this house that had always seemed too big for its inhabitants, and now was especially so. Just faintly, he could hear the dog whining – shut up in the kitchen, knowing that things were not right. The damned animal was his responsibility now, he supposed. And the housekeeper – was he also obliged to find a place for her?

He reached for his collar to straighten the medal there, a reflexive motion that he had already caught himself performing several times that morning. But he forced himself to lower his hand. _Stop it. It’s fine_. He looked at his watch, and admonished himself for a second time. The boy was permitted to keep him waiting on this of all days, when they were on their way to bury his father.

He wondered if the child thought it a blessing or a cruelty that he would not get to view his father’s body. Even Oskar had never seen a man beaten so badly beyond recognition before – once they had recovered the corpse from the Thames they had been forced to identify the victim from his uniform alone. In a detached way, Oskar began to contemplate how he would feel if it were his own father, dead without warning, all the things left unsaid thickening the air at the funeral, pressing down around the grave. He found that he had to stop. This was a difficult enough day already, without any of that.

They would have draped the flag over the coffin by now. Everything would be set up: the flowers, and the standards, and the posthumous decorations – the whole ridiculous business. The SS would never miss an opportunity for ceremony, especially not when one of their own had been murdered by the Resistance. Even when ceremony was exactly what the dead man would not have wanted. But Douglas Archer had made his choices in life, and if he had not wanted a funeral with SS honours then presumably he would not have chosen as he had. It was useless to sit here and wish that his decisions had been different. That was for tomorrow, and for all the days afterwards.

There was a noise at the door, and Douggie came in. He looked smaller than Oskar remembered. The housekeeper had dressed him in his uniform and combed his hair, but one could see that he had scarcely slept last night. Oskar got to his feet. ‘Hello, Douggie.’

‘Hello, sir.’ The boy spoke in hushed tones, fading into silence almost before he could get the words out. And the silence persisted.

Oskar looked at Douggie, who was in turn looking at the carpet. What the hell was he supposed to say? He had found nothing to bring himself any comfort, so how could he begin to comfort Archer’s son?

He bent down to the boy, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ll hear a lot of things said about your father today. I want you to remember that hardly any of it is true. Hardly any of it. Understand?’

‘I understand,’ said Douggie.

Oskar straightened up. ‘No, you don’t. But you will.’ He picked up his cap, stepped over to the mirror to put it on, and took one final look at the ugly clock. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good boy.’

The child shrank against his side as they approached the front door. He knew that the world was waiting out there: to look at him, to mutter about him, to say things that he had no control over. On impulse, Oskar put his arm around his shoulders, and Douggie looked up with a wan smile. Was that all it took – a gesture of solidarity from someone he barely knew? It was easy to forget that children were more adaptable than one gave them credit for. Perhaps, after all, the boy would cope with his loss, better even than Oskar himself would.

‘It will be all right, Douggie. You’ll see.’

Together, they stepped outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the final instalment!


	36. Chapter 36

May 1958

Oxford had changed; and yet, more deeply, it was exactly the same as it had always been. Walking down Catte Street, here in the kernel of the old part of the town, one could imagine that the very stones were laughing – asking how you could possibly have imagined that the city would not endure. How stupid, to think that a place that had weathered so many centuries would not be able to survive the occupation. But it was difficult to be reassured, even now; it was impossible to feel certain that one day some new threat might not appear to shake the city’s complacency. But for today, such thoughts should be put aside.

‘And did you enjoy the ceremony, Dr Archer?’

Douggie smiled, acknowledging the compliment. ‘Was I meant to _enjoy_ it? No-one said anything to me about that.’

‘Well, don’t worry – if you were nervous, it didn’t show.’

They found their way into Christ Church through one of the back gates. Almost as soon as they had entered the room where the reception was being held, they encountered a tall, stooped man, receding of hair but bright-eyed and amiable of face.

Douggie, still slightly awkward in his graduation garb, went to make introductions. ‘Senior Tutor, this is –’

‘Ah, no introduction necessary! You must remember, I rowed with your father.’ He extended a hand. ‘We are very pleased to welcome you back, Mr Archer,’ he said formally.

‘I was delighted to be able to attend, Professor Barrington,’ said Douglas. Douggie had gone to fetch them drinks, presumably thinking that he acted for the best by doing so. Now the two of them were left to their reunion.

‘Your son is a talented scientist,’ said Barrington. And then, as if it were scarcely less important, ‘And a talented oarsman.’

‘You’re very kind.’

Barrington himself had never been known for an outstanding student, Douglas recalled, but here he was, still at Oxford all these years later. He had not resigned his position in protest at the Germans’ arrival, but nor had he been one of the academics who raided the libraries to find books to be burned. All those men were gone, dismissed in ignominy after the liberation. The middle ground had served Barrington well.

And what did Barrington see when he looked at Douglas? A collaborator, still, in spite of everything, or someone who had acted heroically, endangering himself by living as a double agent ? Or perhaps he saw nothing more than a middle-aged man where last he had seen a twenty-one year-old. Perhaps the events in between meant nothing to him, now. Douglas had quickly come to realise that in Britain one drew a veil over the years of the occupation, and never tried to peer beneath it.

‘You must be tired from the flight,’ said Barrington. ‘It’s a long way to come.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. And I’ve had time to recover. Douglas met me in London – we spent a few days there.’

Barrington nodded sagely. ‘And will you spend some time in Oxford too?’

‘Not long,’ said Douglas. ‘We’re travelling north the day after tomorrow – visiting an old friend in Cumbria. I always promised my son that we would go.’

‘Talking about me, I hear,’ Douggie had returned, polite smile affixed to his face, eyes guarded. He began handing around champagne.

‘Only good things,’ said Douglas.

His son laughed. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

There was a lot of his mother in him. He was quick-witted like her, sardonic, but without malice. Jill had been like that: she had teased Douglas – mercilessly, sometimes – but only to make him laugh.

It still amazed Douglas every time he visited, to see how much his son had grown up. When Douggie had come to meet him in London, he had been struck by the boy’s confidence as he moved around the city; his poise; his careful, sophisticated speech. He had lost his American accent entirely. A decade spent living there, and yet his voice betrayed no trace of it.

Seeing that more guests had entered the room, Barrington excused himself and hurried over to greet them. Douglas raised his glass to his son. ‘Congratulations, Douglas.’ They drank.

‘I’m proud of you,’ said Douglas.

‘Even if I stay here and work in the department?’ Douggie swirled his glass, watching the liquid move around. ‘Or if I find a job in a museum and spend all my time arranging the specimens, and I’m never anything more than a zoologist, my whole life?’ He was joking, of course, but as was so often the way, there was genuine concern lingering behind the jest.

 _Fifteen years ago,_ Douglas wanted to say, _if someone had told me that you’d be here, now, or in a zoology museum arranging the specimens, I would have wept with relief._ But he could not raise the spectre of the past here, in the middle of a celebration. ‘Douggie, you’ve always been a good boy,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll always be proud of you. And your mother would have been, too.’

His son gave a slightly pained smile. Douglas was not sure whether his accidental use of the diminutive had made him squirm, or whether it was because a group of Douggie's fellow students were clustered nearby, within overhearing distance of his father’s praise. How young they seemed, thought Douglas – had he really looked the same, at their age?

Sensing that he should change the subject to more banal matters, Douglas inclined his head in the direction of the window. ‘We must hope that this weather holds further north. If Harry’s the same as I remember, he’ll want to stay holed up inside over a drink at the first sign of rain. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.’

‘Dare we hope for sunshine?’ Douggie raised his eyebrows. ‘I recall you insisting that Cumbria was full of mist, and terribly cold. You do realise that I’ve only packed winter clothes?’

‘Well remembered,’ said Douglas drily. ‘But when I told you that, it was November. It’s spring now, and I say that the weather will be beautiful.’

His son affected to look sceptical. ‘Well, we’ll see.’

They lingered over their drinks for a little while. At length, Douglas said, ‘You were meeting your friends from the boat club this afternoon, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, perhaps I should…’ Douggie did not entirely manage to conceal his relief that his father had given him permission to leave. He put down his glass. ‘I’ll see you this evening.’

‘Yes, seven thirty, in town.’

Douggie nodded and turned away. But he turned back. ‘See you then, Dad. I won’t be late.’

‘Enjoy the rest of the afternoon, Douglas.’

Douglas watched his son go, edging politely through the crowd towards the door, smiling at acquaintances, exchanging pleasantries. He knew that he ought to be grateful for what Douggie had become, not dwell on the childhood that was past. But sometimes it was difficult not to do so. The boy still retained that quality: by turns clingy and distant, just as he had during the early days in America, first crying when he heard that Douglas had to go away, then insisting that he did not care. And just sometimes, to antagonise his father, telling him that he had been happier in Berlin, or demanding to know why he had had him smuggled out of London, only to leave him again.

Now that he was grown, thought Douglas, had Douggie begun to understand? Had his son guessed that throughout the day, mingled with his pride, Douglas had found his mind returning to the same thoughts. _Do you see, now, that this was what it was all for? Peacetime; the occupiers gone from Oxford, from Britain, from everywhere in Europe. Wasn’t it all worth it, for that? Do you realise why I had to do it?_

_And after all this time, can’t you begin to forgive me?_

They had never talked about it: his terrible betrayal of his son. They both knew the cruelty that he had inflicted by allowing Douggie to think that he had been killed, letting him stand there in Kensal Green believing that his father’s body was being lowered into the grave, little realising that the dead man was some victim of the Nazi state, rendered anonymous by this final indignity. The enormity of it all had precluded any discussion, for nearly fifteen years.

But now, at last, they would have time. Perhaps as they travelled north together, Douglas would overcome his fear of recrimination and finally ask for forgiveness. And then the clouds that had lingered for so many years might begin to disperse.

 

There was a little café a short way down St Aldates. From the window one could see the gardens at Christ Church; but Douglas took a seat further towards the back of the room

The waitress brought him tea, and he sat for a few minutes with the cup lying untouched on the table in front of him. The sun against the shop windows and the effects of the champagne at the reception had combined to make him feel slightly drowsy. He was unused to drinking during the daytime. In an effort to rouse himself, he drank his tea quickly, and was refilling his cup when a shadow fell across the table.

‘It wasn’t my intention to sneak up on you.’ The tone was almost apologetic.

Douglas raised his eyes. ‘I didn’t know if you would come.’

Huth was as tall as Douglas remembered, and very near as thin. His suit was formal, but nothing out of the ordinary: the sort of approximation of a university lecturer’s attire that General Kellerman had attempted but always overshot. With his right hand he was leaning heavily on a cane.

Douglas watched him as he sat down, seeing how a look of relief – suppressed so as to be barely noticeable – passed across his face as he took the weight off his leg.

‘Don’t worry about that.’ Huth put the cane to one side, as though anxious to disavow it. ‘A bad break, that’s all.’ He caught Douglas looking at him. ‘Years ago, now: a run-in with some of my more fanatical former comrades, shortly before we came to trial. They seemed to believe I’d lost Germany the war...’

What would those men have had Huth do, thought Douglas bitterly – would they have had him sit and wait for the Americans to act, after all his warnings to Berlin had fallen on deaf ears? Huth had understood better than any of them the annihilation that could have ensued had the Americans carried out their threats to use the weapons that they had developed, but Hitler and Himmler had ignored him nonetheless. Only after the surrender of Britain gave the enemy a foothold on the continent had they begun to reconsider.

Still, perhaps Huth had got off lightly. A traitor to his country; a coward who had surrendered Germany troops in an apparent attempt to save himself; a man who had betrayed the SS by colluding with the Abwehr, opening negotiations with the Americans – it was nothing short of miraculous that he had survived an encounter with his former colleagues, however brief. One might have expected that the guards would have been cleaning up what was left of him from the floor. But for a man of such immense drive, not only to have been imprisoned but also immobilised must have been torture indeed.

‘It’s worse some days than others,’ said Huth quietly. ‘Worse today than most.’ The waitress had approached, and he turned to speak to her.

How shocked the woman would have been to learn the truth, to discover that the man sitting in front of her had once favoured restaurants conveniently close to the SS headquarters in Berlin, staffed by waiters intimidated into deferential silence. There was nothing about Huth now to provide a hint – neither his perfect English accent, nor his carelessly charming smile. He was still handsome. Douglas had expected to find him ill-used by life, but he looked well – young for his age, even. Maybe the years in prison had prevented him from drinking and smoking himself into an early grave. 

With the waitress gone, Huth looked back at Douglas. Acknowledging his own flawless impersonation of an Englishman, he said lightly, ‘What do you call that accent, Archer?’

Douglas tried not to look rueful. ‘It’s that noticeable, is it? Well, I’ve been a long time amongst the Americans. I suppose I was bound to pick it up.’

‘You’ve always been good at assimilating.’

From anyone else it might have been meant as a jibe, but from Huth it was a compliment. Douglas knew that at once; he understood the man, still, after all this time.

‘I told them everything, you know,’ he said. He felt that he must say it, before there could be any more talk between them. ‘I told them that you allowed me to take the research.’

Huth smiled. ‘That was foolish. You could have had all the glory for yourself, rather than risk looking like you were still working for the enemy.’

‘And when I was in London, after the liberation, they still had you in custody. But they wouldn’t let me anywhere near you.’

‘Quite right,’ said Huth briskly. ‘Nor would I have done.’

‘I know that,’ said Douglas. ‘Do you think it stopped me from arguing with them?’

Huth’s coffee had arrived. He favoured the cup with a slightly indulgent look, as though to absolve it of any blame for the quality of its contents. ‘I do hope you didn’t blot your copybook with your new comrades in the American army, just for that.’

Douglas shook his head. ‘They needed me by then, my superiors in Army intelligence – they needed my knowledge of London, and Berlin. I’d cooperated fully; I’d let them put me in a uniform so they could keep me under their eye. I didn’t expect them to like me, and they were never really going to trust me.’

‘And yet you’re still with them, I expect?’

‘It was the quickest way to citizenship. And in all honesty, I don’t know what else I would have done. I’d grown used to dealing with classified information, I suppose.’

A quick raise of the eyebrows, just as Douglas remembered. ‘So that’s how you found me.’

‘No. Douggie saw you in town. He’s always been cautious – he had me check whether it could really have been you. He asked me to apologise on his behalf for not saying hello.’

‘No apology needed. He has a right to forget all of that.’ Huth looked down at the table, almost as if embarrassed. Of what he was now, wondered Douglas, or of what he had been before?

‘You’d be surprised, I think. He told me how it was, after I – after I left. He told me that you brought Monty to the school at weekends, how you’d take him for walks on the heath.’

 _He made sure that the other boys saw him, when he visited,_ Douggie had said. _None of them bothered me again, after that._

‘And that day on Parliament Hill… when you told him the truth.’

Douglas had pictured it a thousand times. The first insistent winds of autumn coaxing the leaves from the trees; the dog chasing his tail; the guards waiting at a respectful distance; and Huth seizing the moment – for a moment was all the time that might ever be available – to tell Douggie that his father was still alive. He imagined his son’s disbelief, his anger, his tears – the reopened wounds that eclipsed any sense of joy or relief. And Douglas blamed himself for all of it; he blamed himself for ripping his presence so forcefully from both their lives, and leaving Huth to reach out to Douggie across the rift that remained.

‘Thank you,’ said Douglas. ‘I know the risks that you must have taken to get him to America. And thank you for being kind to him. I was worried he’d forget what kindness was, living at that school.’

Huth was staring into his coffee, and his reply was slow in coming. He blinked, eyes still downturned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what happened to your dog. Events rather overtook me in the last few days before the invasion.’

‘He was a good-natured animal. He’ll have found someone to take him in.’

‘I always liked to think so.’ Huth’s hands were lying on the table and now, for the first time, Douglas saw that he was wearing a wedding ring. He could not help but stare at it.

‘Anna Grantly,’ said Huth. ‘I knew her at Oxford – the daughter of Professor Grantly in the Law Faculty, perhaps you remember him? When I was in prison, I wrote to her again. I asked if she would send books.’ He paused and then, in answer to Douglas’s unspoken question, said, ‘Poetry, novels – anything, really. Don’t look like that. I was desperate.’

‘For books?’ said Douglas. ‘Or for someone to write to?’

Snippets of information had worked their way back to him over the years, all the way up to Huth’s release. He had heard how much of the time he spent in solitary confinement – necessary to stave off further reprisals.

Huth sighed. ‘Both, I suppose. You can imagine my astonishment when she replied. And later, she came to visit me.’

Douglas remembered Anna Grantly. She had seemed very much older than him, rather glamourous, and very clever. He had heard of the gatherings hosted by her father and the debates that always erupted towards the end of the evening, all the students vying for her attention. The boys of Douglas’s age had been a little frightened of her. Douglas could not imagine many British women going to visit Huth in jail, much less agreeing to marry him upon his release – and yet he could believe it of Anna.

Huth said, ‘It’s not that we… Well, Anna had no illusions, put it that way. She’s far too intelligent for that. But she’s a good woman, as well as clever. And she makes me laugh.’

‘A rare talent,’ said Douglas.

Huth smiled. Then he said, ‘I wouldn’t be anything if it weren’t for her. I found that hard to accept at first. But it’s true. She was the only reason that I had somewhere to go once I was released – I had the strangest sense that I wasn’t particularly welcome in Germany… But by then Anna had inherited her father’s house, at Boars Hill.’

Looking at Huth – his relaxed posture, the eyes that had lost their once-constant look of suspicion – Douglas could picture him there, living at peace in Professor Grantly’s former home. It was almost amusing to realise the ease with which he had reinvented himself again, to play the role of a dutiful husband, a good man – a man who had done the right thing, who had saved lives at the cost of his own reputation. But perhaps that was what he could have been all along, had he lived in a time and a place when the success that he desired above everything did not come at such an appalling price. Perhaps when he had gone to study Law as a young man he had cherished some heartfelt belief in justice, and with the optimism of youth had thought that he could never be corrupted.

It did not change anything, of course. He did not really deserve what he had. He did not deserve to wake up each day in such pleasant surroundings; to walk out from his garden and look down over the fields to see Oxford in the distance – not when he was responsible for so many people never rising to see another dawn. And yet, all over Europe, it was the same. Worse men than Huth lived in comfort, and society overlooked their previous offences. When he had been a young policeman in London, Douglas had truly believed that it was possible for everyone to get what they deserved. But he had stopped believing that long ago.

‘Do you think that you will ever come back to live in Britain?’ said Huth.

‘I’d like to. And after so many years of loyal service, they might consider posting me here.’ Douglas sipped his tea. ‘There’s nothing to keep me in America, and I want to be closer to Douggie. I don’t want to get any further into middle age and discover one day that I barely know my own son.’

‘You’re very wise.’

‘Your parents,’ said Douglas. ‘I heard that you got them out of Germany before you gave the order to surrender.’

‘And my father argued with me!’ said Huth, his indignation so obviously unmoderated by time that Douglas smiled despite himself. Huth narrowed his eyes, lowered the pitch of his voice. ‘“Sweden? Why would our friends in Sweden want us to pay them a visit? We’re unwelcome everywhere, Oskar, and that on account of your notoriety!”’ He sighed. ‘Thank goodness my mother had more sense.’

‘I’m sure he was grateful enough once he found out what you were doing.’

Huth shrugged. ‘Or maybe he was angrier still. I’ll always be an embarrassment to him, that’s what I’ve come to understand. I might have served my time, but he’ll never see it that way. I think he gets more pleasure from resenting the fact he has a criminal for a son than he ever would from believing I’ve been rehabilitated. But he’s right in one sense. I’ll never really be free. There’s always the slim chance that someone will go rooting around in the past and dig up something else. And then they’d put me on trial again…’

‘I’m not sure that it’s ever really possible to be free,’ said Douglas. ‘Not when there’s anyone else in the world that you care for. Even now, I wake up at night worrying about my son.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Huth quietly.

The sunlight had slipped away from the café windows now. Soon the shadows of the trees would begin to lengthen and the afternoon would become evening. But outside the air was still warm, the sky clear.

Douglas pushed his empty cup away from him. ‘Come for a walk? We could go down to the river.’

Huth said, ‘I don’t want to make you late for dinner.’

‘I’ve a couple of hours yet. And my guest house isn’t far from here – only a little way down the Abingdon Road.’

‘In that case…’ With his familiar sleight of hand, Huth took a small handful of coins from his pocket, and balanced them in a stack on the table. He stretched, grimaced slightly, and reached for his cane to help him stand up. Once he was on his feet, he looked across at Douglas. ‘We may have to go slowly.’

Douglas came around the table to stand beside him. ‘That makes a damned change, Oskar.’

Huth laughed. ‘You always were a sarcastic bastard, Douglas. I’ve missed you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there it is. Thanks to everyone who has persevered with what turned into a very long story! Hope the ending didn’t feel too rushed; the haste to get it finished has been more in the posting than the plotting or writing.
> 
> I’ve been deliberately vague on the details of how the war is meant to have ended, and even then, what I have suggested might be implausible (I don’t know enough about military history to be sure!). However, more details on some of the plot points I actually have clear in my head are below if anyone is interested.
> 
> \- When Douglas “died”, Douggie was left in the care of the Nazi state, and the SS paid for his education. After a while, once the war with Russia meant that personnel were being moved around and children were leaving his school anyway, Huth took advantage of the confusion to have the Resistance smuggle Douggie to America
> 
> \- By the time that America was ready to enter the war, Britain was relatively under-occupied because so many soldiers had been sent to fight in Eastern Europe. It was therefore fairly easy for America to invade even if Huth/the Abwehr only managed to surrender a fraction of the troops in Britain before the order was reversed
> 
> \- Assuming the war ended in the mid-1940s and Huth was handed a typical sentence for someone who was senior in the Nazi administration but didn’t actively orchestrate mass murder, then he might have been released from jail sometime in the early 1950s
> 
> \- Douggie went to university in America, and then went to Oxford for his PhD. Douglas was conflicted about him going back to Britain, but could not really argue
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


End file.
